Scion of Snaga
by Nawyn
Summary: COMPLETE Sequel to Snaga of Mordor. Cilyawen has escaped Sauron for now, but he is not finished with her yet. And her adopted son, a young Elf with no memory of his past, may be the only one who can save her.
1. The Find

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter One**

They found him lying at the foot of a pond one moonlit night.

Barely a month had passed since Cilyawen, the maiden of the passage, had wed Elrohir, son of Elrond of Imladris, and the entire Elven city of Rivendell found that it made for great sport to tease the couple. Arwen did not take part in the teasing, but she was in the miniscule minority. It was mostly to escape from the endless jokes and laughs that followed the obviously utterly in love pair that Elrohir and Cilyawen made their way outside that moonlit night and into the gardens.

"Finally, some privacy!" Cilyawen sighed happily and looked up at the sky. "This has got to be one of the most beautiful nights I've ever seen here." Elrohir put his arms around her, and she relaxed against him. "Are you sure no one's going to jump out of the bushes and ask if we can see anything besides each other yet?" she asked, tilting her head up so she could look at her husband.

"Positive," Elrohir answered. "Arwen made this garden for herself, me, and Elladan, and we kept it a secret between the three of us. She's nice enough to not tease, and if Elladan gets out of bed, I've gotten everything ready for him to make the acquaintance of a lovely bit of cold water."

Cilyawen swatted his hand playfully. "I swear, you aren't at all grown up! Are you sure you're past your thousandth year?" Elrohir laughed, caught her hands, and pulled her over to a small pond, where a willow tree dipped its branches into the still water. Cilyawen caught her breath at the sight. "Elrohir, this is beautiful!" she breathed, unwilling to break the stillness with any sound above a whisper.

"Isn't it?" he agreed happily. "It's Arwen's favorite part of this garden, but I thought you should see it." Cilyawen smiled and stretched up to kiss him quickly. It turned into a much longer kiss, though, when both of them realized at the same time that this was the first kiss they had shared since marrying when they had been certain that they had complete privacy. When they finally let each other up for air, it was only a quick moment before they kissed again.

Then a piece of the pond's ink-black shadows groaned, and they sprang apart, both scared and angry. Hands joined, they stared wide-eyed at the shadow as it stirred very slightly, and uttered another low groan.

It took only a few moments before Elrohir realized what it was. "Elbereth Starkindler!" he gasped, his hand tightening in shock on his wife's. "Cilyawen, it's a child!"

Cilyawen dropped Elrohir's hand and ran over to the child. Elrohir heard her catch her breath, and when she turned back and looked at him, her face was white with shock and her eyes looked haunted in a way that they hadn't been since she was newly rescued from Dol Guldur. "Elrohir, please - get Arwen, he needs help!" Confronted by Cilyawen's pale face and shaking voice, Elrohir did not think twice before wheeling around and racing back to the house. Cilyawen watched him go. A cold fear slid over her, and she looked quickly around at the darkness. _Don't be stupid,_ she remonstrated with herself nervously. _How could Orcs get here without anyone else having sent us a warning?_ It was scanty comfort when their handiwork was all too plainly laid before her eyes in this young boy.

She brushed the matted and sweat-damp brown hair off his temple, revealing a small pointed ear. Her horror increased - he was an Elf. Her eyes took in his emaciated body, his sunken eyes, and the plethora of bruises and slashes on his face. His left wrist was twisted at an odd angle - it was doubtless a souvenir of an Orc torture chamber. She had seen the effects of their work before. But this poor boy seemed to have been the showcase of the best torturing processes they could dream up. Save for a clumsy and filthy cloth bandage on his wrist, he was utterly naked, and caked with grime. Tear tracks ran down his face, which Cilyawen presumed would be quite finely featured were it not for the effects that hunger and agony had had upon it. Fierce fury welling up in her, she pulled off her cloak and laid it gently over him. A tiny breath eased out of him, and she thought he might have relaxed under the cloak, still warm from the heat of her body.

There were footsteps lightly running toward her, accompanied by a pinpoint of light - Arwen must have grabbed a lantern. She turned around and saw Arwen, followed closely by Elrohir. Each of them had brought a cloak, and Cilyawen spread both the new ones over the boy. "He's been tortured by Orcs," she whispered, her voice still shaking. "We have to get him inside - he'll die otherwise."

Elrohir leaned down and gently slipped an arm under the boy's neck. "Wrap his arms around my neck," he whispered; Arwen set down the lantern and hurried to comply, carefully lifting each limp arm and linking the boy's fingers together behind Elrohir. "Cilyawen, get his feet," Elrohir instructed, and his wife scooped them up carefully. "Here, Arwen." Her brother handed her the lantern. "Lead the way." Holding the lantern high, Arwen led Elrohir and Cilyawen back to Elrond's house, picking her way along the barest paths to make it easier for the unconscious boy's bearers.

"Go on in," she whispered at last, pushing open the door. Elrohir and Cilyawen slipped inside - Arwen followed and locked the door behind them. They made their way up the stairs and into Elrohir and Cilyawen's room. Once inside, Arwen set down the lantern as her brother and her cousin lowered the boy gently into their bed. Then Arwen turned - and her breath caught in her throat as she looked at the boy with the aid of light. Cilyawen too saw things she hadn't been able to see in moonlight alone - the black "bruises" under both his eyes were in fact pockets of trapped blood, and his broken left wrist's unnatural angle was much more obvious. She gripped Elrohir's hand reflexively, every fiber of her being in unconditional sympathy for the boy. "What can we do for him?" Arwen finally asked.

"We can - we can take care of the wounds we can see," Cilyawen said, thinking out loud. "We must keep him here until he recovers. That wrist - we need to see if it can be set, and we can probably find some kind of salve for those bruises."

"He needs clothes," Elrohir pointed out.

"I'll go wake Father," Arwen volunteered, and slipped out of the room. Cilyawen made instantly for her closet, pulled out one of her shifts, and started tearing it quickly into cloth strips. Elrohir prized up a floorboard, and between the two of them, they splinted the boy's arm neatly.

"Are there any clothes he can have?" Cilyawen whispered, slipping the thick quilt out from under him and laying it tenderly over his thin body.

"There must be mine and Elladan's old things," Elrohir answered. "I'll go see if I can find them." He opened the door to find his sister and Elrond just reaching for the doorknob. "Go on in," he said quietly, and slipped past them.

Elrond gave the boy a long look. He drew near to the bed and, gently removing the quilt and cloaks, examined the boy's body. Cilyawen came to stand beside Arwen, clinging to her cousin's hand for comfort. Arwen, knowing too well what the sight of the boy must do to her, gamely allowed Cilyawen to crush the bones of her hands to powder. Finally Elrond spoke. "I think he can make it," he said hoarsely. Arwen, startled at the sound of his voice, looked closely at her father and understood the twist of his mouth and the tight line of his jaw. He was trying not to think of Celebrian, of the fact that this had been done to her as well as the unknown boy who lay unconscious before him. She pried her hands out of Cilyawen's and took Elrond's. The Lord of Rivendell gave his daughter a grateful glance before he went on. "He will need to rest, and to be tended at all times, but if he is strong enough and has good care, I think he will live to avenge himself." Cilyawen let out an explosive gasp of relief at his words.

The door opened, and Elrohir came back in with three pairs of pants, two shirts, an overtunic, boots, and more cloaks. He quickly dropped his load beside the bed and shot a quick glance of inquiry at his father. "He may yet live," Elrond repeated, and every muscle in Elrohir's face loosened.

"I will take care of him," Cilyawen said. Her voice was quiet, but no one thought for an instant to suggest that someone else have the job. "What must I do, Uncle?"

"Not alone, you won't!" Elrohir reminded her with a touch on her arm. She looked up gratefully at her husband and revised her question, "What must we do?"

Elrond opened his mouth to enumerate the care that the boy must receive when Arwen jumped and pointed to the bed. The boy was sitting up, cloaks and quilt fallen from him. His face and chest were soaked with sweat, and his large blue eyes were as wild as any animal's. "Naneth! Ada!" he cried madly. Arwen's hand flew to her mouth - he was calling for his parents. He repeated his wild cries twice more, and then fell abruptly silent. He stared around the room, his chest heaving with the heavy breaths he took, and his eyes feral in their pure, instinctive terror.

Cilyawen stepped to the side of his bed. The boy flung out a hand at her face as she drew near, but she ducked under it and murmured soothingly. Slowly some of the wildness left his eyes, but he swallowed hard with barely-controlled fear. "Naneth?" he repeated, more confused than frantic.

"No," Cilyawen whispered. "No, I'm not Naneth."

"Where is she?" the boy demanded tremulously. "Where - where is..." He gasped suddenly, and sank back down onto the bed.

Cilyawen put out a hand and gently stroked his brown hair. Tears stung her eyes as she whispered, "Hush, you're safe now. You're safe, and we'll find Naneth and Adar, I promise!"

The boy looked up at her, his eyes dulled. "No. No, you won't. No one can find them now."

Cilyawen closed her eyes tightly for a few moments. When she opened them, the boy was asleep as suddenly as he had woken.

She swallowed hard, then turned from the boy and looked back at Elrond. "We will tend to him," she repeated. "What must we do?"


	2. A Wager, A Disaster

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Two**

No one who had not been in Rivendell for the three insane months that followed the discovery of the boy would have guessed that the young and very handsome Elf on the training grounds who nocked his arrow so precisely and aimed with such perfection had once been lying delirious in the bed of one of Lord Elrond's sons, while that son and his wife fought day and night for his life. But the Elf showed no signs of that peril he had once been in as he let fly his arrow and watched, satisfied, as it thudded dully into the center of his target. He turned to face his friends with a triumphant smile on his face. "Teach you to wager I couldn't make a shot!" he laughed, accepting a dipper of water from Fingil, the one closest to him.

"That it did!" admitted Dinroth. "Remind me what the wager was."

"The first dance at tonight's feast with either Lady Arwen or Lady Laureloth." Fingil's grin was wide as he jostled Dinroth. The loser was quite graceful about it, considering that Arwen was, after all, Arwen, and Laureloth was generally considered the loveliest elf in Rivendell after her. Dinroth sighed dramatically and bowed his head in acquiescence.

"Look, Lady Cilyawen's coming out here!" Fingil's tone was almost worshipful – the lady's skill with daggers was rivaled by none in Rivendell, and few outside it, and she had taught all the young Elves clustered in the practice grounds quite a few tricks. Instantly, all of them turned to give her some kind of obeisance.

They had known that she would not accept their hero-worship of her – it made them adore her all the more. "None of that, my lads!" she laughed, swatting them aside and halting only when she stood before the winner, the Elf boy she and Elrohir had saved ten years past. "Well, Mothlin?" she asked, tilting her head to one side. "Did you make your shot?"

"I did!" Mothlin straightened under Cilyawen's eyes and grinned proudly. "Look!" He pointed out to where the target had been set up, a full eighty paces beyond where he stood.

Cilyawen measured the distance, and looked back at Mothlin with admiration. "Well done," she approved. Then, turning to the other boys, she asked, "Might I be permitted to know the wager?"

They would have gladly told their hero anything. "The first dance at the feast tonight," Fingil volunteered, "with Lady Arwen or Lady Laureloth."

A knowing smile crossed Cilyawen's face as the two names passed Fingil's lips. "Ah," she grinned. "Well, all of you, whenever you're ready to abandon the bow and learn the daggers, I will be waiting. But don't make me wait too long!"

"Or else?" Mothlin called as she turned and began to walk away.

Her smile was the perfect mirror of her mischievous husband's. "Or else I won't even try to let you win!" A chorus of good-natured laughter followed her as she walked to the practice room she always used for her dagger lessons.

"Come on, let's go," Mothlin sighed, carefully slipping the string from his bow. The boys around him dispersed, some following Cilyawen, some going with Mothlin as he hung up his practice bow and quiver in the storage room for archery, and wrapped the string in an oiled cloth to keep it limber. He thought absently of Cilyawen as he removed the arrows from the quiver and returned them to the heap of arrows that was kept in a large corner of the bow room. His memories of his past life were still not coming back to him easily, but Cilyawen was to thank for the few that had returned – she and Elrohir. Mothlin was under no illusions about how much he owed his second parents. If not for them, he would be most assuredly dead.

One memory that he always wished he could trade for a happier one was the tortures that the Orcs had inflicted on him. They had strapped him to a wood frame while they pushed his wrist back until he was scream-crying with the pain, until its bones had snapped. Even now his left wrist was still weak. They had set upon him, ten at once, with steel-pointed whips, and flayed his bare flesh until not an inch of him was free of blood, until he had fainted in pain. They had...but he cut the memory off. It might be there, but he could still choose to ignore it.

He remembered, too, the night he had been found. Of the journey from his home, he remembered nothing. It had not been far from Rivendell, but he had been nearly dead when he started. It was a miracle he had survived at all. He remembered the moonlit pond, remembered being held close to Elrohir's beating heart, remembered Cilyawen cooing softly and holding his hand in hers. And finally, some memories of the rest of his life had come back to him, memories of his first Naneth, his first Ada, of his first home. He liked, when too many things were happening all at once and he felt ready to burst open, to lie on his bed and revisit the few golden memories of his childhood. Mothlin had no idea if the rest of the good memories would return, but he hoped they would, in time.

He had gone past the door of Cilyawen's practice room, lost in his musings. Shaking his head at himself, Mothlin turned back and pushed open the door. Cilyawen, her back to him, was quickly going through her warm-ups. "I'm here," he said.

She turned around and smiled. "Come on in," she said. "Get warmed up. Then we'll start. Any of the others coming?"

"Maybe," Mothlin answered, kicking off his boots to stretch. "I don't know."

"Well, we'll see if they turn up. Go on, then. Breathe in, and slowly lower your torso to your legs..."

Mothlin looked carefully across the hall at the two ladies he could dance with. Fingil, who had had a bit too much wine, was swaying beside him as he whispered reasons in favor of both ladies, which helped not at all. "Well, Lady Arwen is the most beautiful Elf since Luthien, enough said–" Mothlin held out an arm for his friend to steady himself on, out of sheer force of habit. He liked Fingil, but part of being Fingil's best friend was that you had to be on hand when he had too much to drink. Mothlin had gotten used to it. "But Laureloth is..." He whistled. "She _is_. And I think she likes the look of you very much."

Mothlin nodded and nabbed Fingil's goblet, setting it on a table out of reach. "It seems you haven't yet made up your mind about who is the most beautiful Elf since Luthien," he teased. "But I think I choose Laureloth." He set his own goblet on the table and walked quickly toward Laureloth as couples began to draw together for dancing. "My lady," Mothlin said, bowing extravagantly, "would you do me the extreme honor of being my partner for this dance?"

Laureloth giggled and smiled. "Gladly," she replied, giving him her delicate hand.

It was very nice to be receiving so many envious glances because of the lovely, graceful girl at his side. Mothlin went easily through the dance, happily conscious of the admiring looks that Laureloth herself sent his way. _Perhaps Fingil was right,_ he thought, bowing as the dance finished and delivering her to Dinroth, who was almost jumping up and down in his eagerness to dance with her. Well satisfied, Mothlin headed back to his wine goblet.

It was getting very hot in here, he noticed. _Why not open the door?_ asked a voice in his mind. _Excellent thought,_ he told it, and made for the door in question. He unlatched it and pushed it open. The cool nighttime breeze rushed through, into the room, and he sighed happily to feel it on his face. Mothlin stepped back into the room, blending with the nondancers and retrieved his goblet. Maybe he was a little more nervous about having danced with Laureloth than he had admitted to himself – why else would his face feel so hot?

Come to think of it, why _had_ he opened the door? It wasn't all that hot in here. He wondered why he had made such a fuss about it. _I should go close the door,_ Mothlin sighed to himself, and took a step towards it.

Then the door, cracked slightly ajar, was blown open by the horde of Orcs rushing into the hall. Mothlin gripped a table to steady himself and bellowed, "Orcs!" The music stopped mid-note as the foul beasts poured into the hall. Mothlin cast a glance at Cilyawen and Elrohir – her face was utterly white with terror, and he had both his arms protectively around her.

It was then that a thought broke through the scared haze of Mothlin's mind – all those Orcs were rushing straight at Cilyawen.

He dropped his goblet – it shattered on the floor, spilling fine wine on his shoes – and shoved his way through the mass of terrified Elves clinging to one another. _"Move!"_ he snarled, pushing them aside. They parted before him like ants running from some danger. But the Orcs had used the frozen terror of the Elves well. As the Elves recovered and clambered for any kind of weapon (some using dishes and tableware), the Orcs were barreling their way toward Cilyawen and Elrohir, slashing with abandon at the Elves who barred their way. If only Mothlin could get a little closer – if only the people in front of him would just _move..._

The Orc in front lashed his sword at Elrohir, opening a red line on his cheek. The Elf yelled in pain, but seized two knives and held them like daggers. But they were too short, and Mothlin watched in horror as Elrohir fell, a cut across his collarbone – _So close to his throat! Oh, please, Valar, no!_ Mothlin thought – and the Orc in front shot out his hand and grabbed Cilyawen by the arm.

The touch made her come back to herself. She caught up one of the knives Elrohir had been using and tried to defend herself. Mothlin fumbled for his own knives – he always kept them in leg sheaths; where were they? – and as he came up with both glittering in his hands, a second Orc wrenched Cilyawen's wrist back. The table knife clattered to the floor. "Cilyawen!" Mothlin cried, and hurled one of his knives across the space between them. She threw her hand up for it – and missed.

The Orcs made their getaway quickly. They had their prize – they would not stay to be killed. They even left Mothlin's knife lying where it had fallen. They took nothing but Cilyawen.

And now, irony of ironies, Mothlin reached the spot where his foster-parents had stood and fought, and he screamed his anger in a swift cry. He snatched up his knife and, with a quick, vicious movement, jammed it back into its sheath. He had been too late..._too late!_ And it was he who was to blame for Cilyawen's capture, it was he who had opened the door.

At his feet, Elrohir stirred. "Take – care of yourself – Mothlin," he gasped. "You're going to – hurt yourself – if you don't sheath that thing – properly."

Mothlin fell to his knees beside Elrohir. He scanned the wound across his collarbone hastily, hope threatening to choke him. It was not fatal, but Elrohir would need care and rest. "Someone carry him!" Mothlin cried, standing. "He can't walk, but he's not dead – someone carry him to his room!"

Elrond pushed his way through the crowd and, without a word, bent and lifted his son. "Lead the way, Mothlin," he said quietly, and Mothlin led him quickly out of the hall, up some stairs, and into Elrohir's room. Elrond laid his son down on his bed, but he did not leave. He turned to Mothlin and put a hand on his shoulder. Mothlin looked up at his foster-grandfather, a catch in his voice as he said quietly, "It shouldn't have happened."

Elrond's hand squeezed his shoulder gently. "No, it shouldn't have," he answered in a taut voice. "But it did, and we make what we can from it. Tend him, Mothlin, and do not think it was your fault."

"But it was," Mothlin whispered.

"All think that when they lose someone dear to them." Elrond choked on his tears, and took a moment to gather his voice again. "But you are not to blame. I shall send out searchers for Cilyawen immediately. Do not worry about her – we will find her."

Mothlin sighed heavily, staring at the pale face of his foster-father. "Thank you, my lord," he whispered. Elrond looked once more at Elrohir's face, and then turned quickly and left.

"But it was my fault," Mothlin murmured to himself, once Elrond was out of earshot. "It was."


	3. Mothlin's Promise

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Three**

Mothlin sat, his head in his hands, in Elrohir's room, muttering expletives under his breath. Why was it taking such a Valar-cursed long _time_ to get a search party together? It was almost a week since Cilyawen had been taken, and still the Elves had not mustered a searching force to get her back. Mothlin was ready to throttle someone, he was so full of anger at their interminable slowness.

One small comfort was that he knew perfectly well that Arwen felt the same way. Elrohir most definitely would, were he awake and able to move about. In fact, if Elrohir were able to walk and ride, Mothlin was sure that he would have ridden out the very night she had been taken, and she would be home safe by now. There was no middle ground when it came to the emotions Cilyawen inspired in people - one either hated her or loved her.

_And whoever sent those Orcs after her must have really hated her,_ Mothlin thought grimly. _I wish we knew who it was!_

The bedsprings creaked. Mothlin sat up with a jerk to see his adopted father slowly sitting up and shoving away the quilt. Mothlin sprang to his feet and ran to Elrohir, gently but firmly pushing him back down. "None of that," he scolded. "You need to recover!"

"And she needs to be rescued." Elrohir's voice was cracked and dry, but Mothlin could hear clearly the fear in it for Cilyawen's fate. "Don't be silly, Mothlin. I need to find her." He tried valiantly to sit up, but this time he fell down onto the bed. "Please," he gasped. "Help me up."

Mothlin swallowed. "I can't," he whispered. "Elrohir, you'd die within five minutes! I'm not going to let you die!"

Elrohir tilted his head back to regard Mothlin with eyes dark with grief. "Mothlin, there are some things in this world worth dying for."

Mothlin ducked his head, ashamed. He could not look back at Elrohir.

"If you will not let me go to save her," Elrohir said, "will you go in my place?"

"What?" Mothlin found now that he most definitely could look at Elrohir. "What are you saying? I'm sure Elrond will have something ready–"

"Mothlin, you know as well as I that it will take a while for Elrond to gather searchers." A faint bitter smile crossed Elrohir's lips. "He cares for her, but not all the Elves here do. Some have never accepted her, even after she's shown them numerous times that she's for them now." He turned his fever-bright eyes on Mothlin and caught his hands. "Give me your word, Mothlin, please. I cannot bear the thought of her in pain, and me knowing I did nothing to save her. _Please._"

Mothlin was astounded. His foster-father, the bravest, most reckless, and noblest Elf he knew, was weeping. Tears were coursing freely down Elrohir's cheeks as he gripped Mothlin's hands. He bit his lip. If truth be told, he had often entertained thoughts this week of doing exactly what Elrohir was pleading with him to do, and he could not deny that he felt the same way Elrohir did about his helplessness. "I'll find someone else to look after you," he muttered. "And I'll go after her. I swear."

Elrohir's bone-crushing grip on his hands relaxed, and a great breath escaped him. Elrohir closed his eyes in relief and sank back again onto his pillows. "Thank you, Mothlin," he whispered. He allowed Mothlin to help him nestle deeper into the pillows, and soon his chest began to rise and fall in the even breathing of sleep.

Only then did Mothlin allow himself to consider what it was he had agreed to do. He had just promised Elrohir that he would ride out into unknown territory in search of his foster-mother who had been kidnapped by foul Orcs and taken who knew where in all of Middle-earth. Determined to put a positive light on it, he sighed silently to himself, _I was getting a little restless here._ He forced himself to smile at his horrible joke and slipped quietly out of Elrohir's room.

And, turning around, bumped squarely into Arwen. "Arwen!" Mothlin gasped, chagrined. "I'm so sorry–"

She smiled to put him at ease, but so near to her brother's room, it was a tight smile. "Elrohir must be doing a little better," she said. "That would be the only thing I could think of that would take you from his side for a moment."

Mothlin ducked his head. He was about to stammer an excuse that yes, her brother was doing remarkably well, when he remembered that Arwen had been the one who brought Cilyawen from wherever she had grown up – she never spoke of her childhood, or indeed of her life before she came to Rivendell. "Arwen," he ventured, praying that she would speak of what Cilyawen had placed in the past, "I need to talk to you."

With one serious look at his face, Arwen knew that this was a topic which would require chairs - she had a feeling that she would want to sit down once Mothlin began talking. "Come to my room," she said, and led him down the hall to her room. She pushed open the door and held it open for Mothlin, then pulled a chair over and sat down. "Speak."

"Elrohir wanted to go after her," Mothlin said bluntly. "I wouldn't let him, but – Arwen, this is more than he can bear, the possibility of losing her! Even I can tell! I don't - I don't think he wants to live if he can't live with her."

Arwen's beautiful face was held steady with iron control. "Yes."

"I stopped him from going, but he made me promise. To go instead of him."

_I was right about the chairs._ It was the only coherent thought in Arwen's mind at the moment. The rest of her brain was screaming in shock and anger. _Is he crazy? Mothlin's only a boy – but he cares about Cilyawen as much as Elrohir – but how can we send him out there – but Elrohir's right, Mothlin would do a better job than any search party – but – but–_

"I've made up my mind to go," Mothlin went on, interrupting Arwen's scattered thoughts, "but I need to have some idea of where I might start looking. And I need to know about her past, the things she never speaks of. I was hoping you would know."

Arwen forced her frazzled mind under control. _He's right,_ she thought. _He's right, and we've all been stupid and blind not to realize that this would have to be told sooner or later._ "Very well," she said heavily. "It will take some time to tell."

"Then we'd best start right away," Mothlin answered. "Time is what Cilyawen does not have."

Mothlin was well prepared for his journey that night, as he slipped silently through the sleeping city and made his way to the stables. As she had promised to do, Arwen had left the doors unlocked, and Mothlin pushed them open, careful not to let them creak. He shut the doors, lit the small lamp that hung by them, and opened the door of his favorite horse's stall. A glossy brown mare took a tentative step forward out of her stall, and Mothlin rubbed her nose. "Hush, Tari," he whispered as the horse he had named with the word for "queen" fidgeted. "We're going on a trip, my beauty."

He would have preferred to ride without a saddle, but if he did, there would be no place to put his pack and weapons. Mothlin chose the light, small saddle that Elrohir had taught him with and laid it over Tari's back. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn't balk at the unaccustomed burden – she snorted, tossed her head, and quieted. Mothlin breathed a sigh of relief and tightened the girths, then strapped his pack to one side of the saddle and his bow, quiver, and sword to the other side. He left the small stable lamp burning until he led Tari out of the stables; then he leaned back and blew the flame out. He locked the door – Arwen had slid the key under the stable door – and left the key in the keyhole. No one would get into Rivendell so soon after the Orc assault – the guards would be doubled, maybe even tripled. That would hinder his passage from Rivendell, but Mothlin was confident in Tari's obedience and his own skills that he didn't worry too much about the guards.

The front gate of Elrond's city rose smoothly before him, but Mothlin avoided it, choosing instead one of the secret, smaller ways out of Rivendell that Elrohir, Arwen, and Elladan had found or made long ago. Tari did him proud – she made not a sound beyond the quiet hush of her hooves on fallen leaves. Mothlin himself crept as silent as a shadow through the passage, emerging after a long, dark trek on the far side of Rivendell, with the ford of the Bruinen River not far away. Only then did Mothlin mount up and nudge Tari into a quiet walk. No need to go for speed and alert a guard who might be near. Speed could come later. Speed could come when he drew near to Mirkwood.

Arwen had related her adventures to recover Cilyawen in perfect detail, and Mothlin knew exactly where to go. It was simple, really, when he had taken time to think it out. The only person who could command so many Orcs was the Enemy. Arwen's tale had convinced Mothlin that the tales of the Enemy's death long ago were decidedly false. The Enemy was also the only person Mothlin could think of who would go to such outrageous lengths to capture Cilyawen. And he had held Cilyawen against her will in Dol Guldur, his fortress in Mirkwood. Therefore, logic dictated that if he went to Dol Guldur, the Enemy would be there – as would Cilyawen.

He had reached the Ford, and Tari crossed it quickly. Mothlin cast a swift glance around him to make sure no one was there. His keen eyes spotted no one, and he leaned close to Tari's ear and whispered, _"Noro lim!"_ She passed smoothly from trot to canter, and Mothlin let himself revel in the rush of air through his hair and on his face as he turned Tari's head to the Misty Mountains.

That voice. She knew that voice, knew it too well from both nightmares and memories that seemed like nightmares. She covered her ears with her hands, willing her mind to block it out, willing herself to wake up in Rivendell to Elrohir and a beautiful sunrise.

He laughed.

"**I had quite expected to hate you,"** he said almost conversationally. **"In fact, I do. You did, after all, rob me of my consort and escape with your filthy little kinswoman. But even after five years of storing up bad feelings against you, I find you still amuse me."**

She remembered a time when, young and crazy and sure of her death, she had stood before him and spat at his voice. He still had no body, no form for her to direct anything of the sort at, but the instinct rose in her again. She choked it down. She must stay alive for now. Other instincts surfaced, instincts she had learned during her youth – instincts that had helped her live back then. She controlled her temper and pulled herself straight. "I'm glad I am not utterly worthless, then."

"**Oh, but you are – almost,"** he chuckled. **"Do not think I need amusement. No. I had you brought here for an entirely different purpose, Snaga."**

No. Her fragile control over herself snapped. No. She would not be called by that name again. She had changed her name, she had left that other one and all the memories it carried behind. _No._ "My name," she hissed, "is Cilyawen."

"**Not anymore,"** was his reply. The disembodied voice floated around her, and she did not know where to look to spit. **"You were born Snaga, and you will die Snaga."**

"I was born a free Elf!" she shouted, her eyes blazing in fury, "and I have lived the past five years of my life as such, and one so low as you _will not take that from me!"_

He sent his mind out over the land, still shaken by Snaga's strength. He had not expected her to withstand the blows he flung at her, but she had. Finally he had left her. He had her captive – that was all that mattered. And despite the brave front she showed him, he knew perfectly well that her memories held fear for him such as no other living creature had. He would put that fear to good use. Already she was remembering – already she was feeling fear again.

Where was his thrall? His thoughts quested the land for the being under his control, the being he could use to trap Snaga. For she was important in his plan, very important. And this time, she would not smash it to pieces. This time he had taken precautions, and he would succeed.

There - he had found the thrall. He entered the being's mind and planted a thought in its mind. **Obey. Come. Obey.** He had no doubt of the thrall's obedience. The thrall would come, and Snaga would fall into his trap.

Sauron laughed.


	4. Goblins

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Four**

Mothlin woke at sunrise, with the sun's light glaring in his eyes. He threw up a hand to shield them, rolled onto his side, and sat up. Tari was peacefully sleeping under a tree. A patch of grass was cropped bare around her. Mothlin smiled at the sight.

He stumbled to his feet and made his way down to the stream he had spotted last night. Kneeling on its pebbly bank, Mothlin scooped a handful of cold water and threw it unceremoniously into his face. He gasped with the shock of cold, but it woke him up. He stretched his cramped limbs and rolled his head to get the kinks out of his neck. "Once this is over, I am never sleeping on the ground again," he vowed to himself.

When he judged himself sufficiently awake to appreciate food, Mothlin went back to the spot where he and Tari had made camp. Tari was still slumbering, and Mothlin hated to wake her - but he had to. He crouched beside her and stroked her smooth brown flank, murmuring under his breath. When she did not stir, he played with her ears and thumped her side gently. Finally she blew out a breath and lifted her head to regard him, her eyes full of injury. "I am sorry," Mothlin sighed, "but we must be moving on, and we both need to eat." He had tethered her to a tree during the night, but he untied her now and let her graze. He himself opened his pack and pulled out a wafer of _lembas._ He had brought other food, but he thought it would be best to eat the _lembas_ now, before he grew to hate the taste. He broke off a piece and ate it, watching Tari nibble delicately at the blades of grass. When he had had enough, Mothlin rewrapped the remainder of the wafer and stuffed it back in his pack, pulling it shut. Then he whistled, and Tari came to him. Mothlin saddled her, attached the pack, and climbed onto her back. At a nudge from his knees, Tari headed for the Misty Mountains at a brisk canter.

Arwen's version of the rescue of Cilyawen had glossed over the mountain journey, and Mothlin wondered sardonically why Arwen had made so light of it. If any of his descendants ever asked him about this adventure, _he_ would fill their ears with horror stories of the endless plodding up mountains and down hills, the whistling wind that froze his ears to the tips, the backache, footache, neckache - _every single detail,_ in hopes that those descendants would not be so foolhardy as to rush off to travel through the Misty Mountains and think it would be easy.

Tari, lagging behind him, gave a plaintive whinny. Mothlin turned around and bit his lips at the sight of his weary horse. "You should have asked to stop sooner," he informed her, willingly plopping down onto a rock. "I would have said yes."

She came over to him, whickering, and Mothlin rubbed her nose tenderly before taking off her saddle. He unlaced his pack and removed a hard green apple and some _lembas._ He cut the apple neatly in half, fed Tari one half, and quartered the other one for himself. _Lembas_ was losing its charm even sooner than Mothlin had expected it to, and the tart, crisp apple was a welcome change. Mothlin half wished he had not given the other half to Tari - but only half wished it.

The rock was not comfortable, but it was flat. Mothlin lay back and pulled his cloak over himself. _I'm so tired,_ he thought as his eyelids slipped over his eyes. _I'll just rest for a short while..._

When he woke, the sky was darkening, and Tari had drifted away. Mothlin shrugged off his cloak, shivering at the chilly evening air, and whistled for her. She trotted up from a lower level of the mountain and thrust her nose into his hands. Relieved, he patted her nose before he picked up his pack, put it back on the saddle, and threw the saddle over Tari. "Let's see how far we can go," he told her, drawing his cloak closer around him and spreading a blanket over Tari to help her keep warm.

They trudged through the growing darkness, stepping carefully over the dangerous ground until Mothlin found that he could barely see his hand in front of his eyes. Then he stopped, and Tari gratefully found as comfortable a spot as she could and fell asleep. "I always knew you were smart, girl," Mothlin muttered to himself. He spread his cloak down on the ground and soon slept himself, a dreamless sleep.

Sounds were drifting to his ears - not loud sounds, but not silent ones. Mothlin sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinking to see the source of the noises. His movements jostled a few rocks, and a light swung in his direction. Mothlin dropped, pressing his chest against the ground, breathing hard in fear of discovery. The fright had fully woken him, and as he listened to the bearers of that terrible light move away from him, he heard their speech, and a wave of cold fear washed over him. They were goblins.

_I should have known!_ Mothlin berated himself. _Arwen told me of her capture when she went through the Misty Mountains. I should have been more alert. I should have been ready. I should have - Tari!_ He realized with a start that if the goblins found his horse, they would drag her off and eat her. And she might not know to hide herself until they were on her.

_Nothing for it,_ Mothlin thought grimly. _And I have to escape from them anyway - otherwise they'll come over here and find me._ He took a deep breath to steady his wits, clenched his fists - and stood, in plain view of the goblins, and whistled for Tari.

They saw him, dropped their torch gladly, and came racing over the rocky ground to him, blades out. Mothlin whipped his two daggers out of their belt sheaths and fell instantly into a fighter's crouch, wishing he had his sword or his bow - the two daggers did not look sufficient to fend off the goblins' heavy swords. The goblins were nearly upon him when he heard the welcome whinny of his horse running toward him, her mane flying as she ran.

The first goblin flailed wildly at him with his sword - Mothlin parried the blow with one dagger and sent the other one into the goblin's guts. Wrenching his bloody dagger free, he kicked the goblin's body to one side and pinned the second goblin's blade between his daggers. His muscles strained as the goblin exerted pressure, but Mothlin's foot flew up and into the goblin's belly. A quick slash across the throat finished that opponent, and Tari was drawing level with him.

Mothlin sprang onto a small mound of rocks, keeping the rest of the goblins at bay with daggers and feet. Tari pulled up behind him and reared in defense of her master. Her hooves found their marks. Two more goblins tumbled to the ground. Mothlin whirled around, launched himself onto Tari's back, and kicked his heels into her sides. She plunged forward into the darkness.

The goblins shrieked behind Mothlin, and he heard them clatter after him. Shoving his daggers back into their sheaths, Mothlin fumbled at Tari's saddle for the place he had hung his bow. Once he had it in his hand, he caught her mane and pulled her to a stop while he strung and loaded it. "Go!" he whispered when he had it ready and his quiver at hand, and Tari obeyed.

The sound of crashing rock was closer - the goblins were catching up. Mothlin swung his leg around to one side so he was riding sidesaddle, took careful aim, and loosed his arrow. He saw it plunge into one goblin's eye before he leaned back and pulled another arrow from his quiver. Again he loaded, aimed, and shot - again his arrow sped true to its mark. Once more he shot an arrow into a goblin, and then the sounds ran in the opposite direction. "They're only going to get reinforcements, Tari, my beautiful girl," he whispered, gasping heavily. "Neither of us will get much sleep tonight." Mothlin unstrung his bow - no need to put unneeded pressure on the wood - and moved his leg back to the other side of Tari. "Run," he said, "and don't stop until we're out of here."

Sunrise found them still running, but both Mothlin and Tari were newly energized. They had happened upon a rough trail by sheer luck during the wild run of the night, and following it had led them through the Misty Mountains with much more ease than they would otherwise have had. Looking ahead, Mothlin could see a flat plain, not another towering peak. "I think we're nearly out of here," he called happily to Tari. The mare, though slathered with sweat, quickened her pace and neighed eagerly.

They passed through a cleft in the mountain - and emerged on the other side of the mountain range. Mothlin's eyes widened with relief as he looked at the flat expanse of land and the river that cut through it, but his relief was put to an end as he realized there were three rivers that that could be.

"What do you think, Tari?" he asked, pulling her to a well-deserved halt and dismounting. "That's either the Sir Nindor, which Men call the Gladden River, the Nimrodel, or the Celebrant." He cocked his head at the mare, who lowered her head to the ground and began grazing, ignoring him utterly. Mothlin raised his eyebrows. "Well, I suppose I'll have to figure it out on my own, since you don't seem inclined to help me." The only response he received was a whicker and the sound of chewing.

He sat down on the grass and stared at the river. "Whichever one it is, it joins the Anduin, which runs near Mirkwood, so it won't be disastrous if I take it," Mothlin muttered to himself, thinking aloud. "And since I can't see another river near it, it must be Sir Nindor." He sighed with disappointment - his journey would have been so much easier had it been Celebrant or Nimrodel. Well, since it was so much longer, he had better get moving. Cilyawen did not have much time, after all...

Tari lifted her head from the grass and regarded Mothlin with a reproachful gaze. He burst out laughing. "All right, Tari, I won't make you get up and start running again. In fact, I could do with some food myself." He removed his pack from the saddle and broke off some _lembas_ for himself. "I wouldn't do Cilyawen much good if I arrived at Dol Guldur half-dead from hunger."

When he finished, Mothlin lay back on the grass, his head cradled on top of his hands, and stared at the sky. It was so wonderful to simply rest, especially after last night. He released a heavy breath, closed his eyes, and slept.


	5. Mirkwood and Lothlórien

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Five**

Cilyawen tried to pretend that she didn't mind the foul hands of the Orcs clutching her by her bare arms, but she did - her flesh crawled at the touch of theirs. _As if I'd let them see it, though,_ she thought, and jerked up her chin, ignoring the sneers of her captors. Evidently Sauron had not told them she understood Black Speech - they were talking about her, not to her, and the things they called her would have guaranteed their slow, painful death had Elrohir - or for that matter, any of her family - heard them. She had the sense not to let them know she could speak fluent Black Speech. Cilyawen's entire life had been a lesson in, among other things, the prudence of discretion and silence, so she said nothing to them, let them haul her through the underground tunnels and chambers that had been hastily dug beneath the ruins of Dol Guldur. _Dug for what?_ Cilyawen wondered. _Once the fortress was razed, I wouldn't have thought that Sauron would come back to it._ The answer came to her with unwanted swiftness. _Dug for whatever purpose he brought you here for, of course._ She bit her lip, forced back a shudder of fear. _If I let him frighten me, his battle's half won._

But of course she was frightened, more frightened than she had ever been in all her life - save only for her days of confinement after she had refused Sauron's gift of a ring, Darya. Her first rebellion against him had been terrifying, but she had succeeded and escaped. Now she was back in the hands of a being who knew now exactly what she was capable of, and what she would do for freedom. There would be no surprise attacks, not this time around.

The Orcs threw her unceremoniously to the earth. Cilyawen caught her weight with her hands reflexively, as Elrohir had taught her, and rolled to her knees. From somewhere above her came a laugh. It was not a kind one. Cilyawen got to her feet and stared coldly at the place where Sauron's being was. She had been able, long ago, to tell where he was, even though he had no body. Her old skills were, luckily, returning fast. "I would be much obliged if you would tell me what it is you plan to do with me."

His laughter died away. **"I'm sure you would. However, I don't feel like parting with that information at the moment."**

She was so sick of his cat-and-mouse games, so sick she thought she'd choke on it. "Stop it. Just stop it. I'm not a child anymore, and I neither like nor require your games. For once in your miserable life, be forthright and tell me what I want to know." She planted her feet firmly and waited for his answer.

When it came, the amusement had vanished from his voice. **"I keep forgetting you're not as thick-witted as you once were, Snaga. I'll try not to make that mistake again, unless you give me reason to."**She knew better than to break in on his words - his voice was taut with anger. **"But I will not tell you. It would give me great pleasure to withhold from you the thing you want so badly."** He struck her across the face - she flinched, but did not move from where she had set her feet. **"Instead, Snaga, I think I will break you - slowly, excruciatingly, until you beg me for the food you require to survive."**

She laughed contemptuously. "Why are you so sure you _can_ break me? You haven't forgotten Darya, and your dungeons. I know you, and I know you haven't forgotten." She tossed her cascade of hair over her shoulder and smiled tightly, defiantly, proudly. "I resisted you once. I escaped you once. I am older now, wiser, more skilled. I can do it again."

Cilyawen was sure she'd won, but her suspicions were confirmed when Sauron hissed, his voice throbbing with white-hot anger, **"Get out, Snaga."**

"With pleasure." She held out her arms, and the Orcs grabbed them and started to drag her away. At the entrance to the tunnel that would lead back to her dungeon, she dug in her heels, halted her captors, and looked back at Sauron. "My name," she said calmly, "is Cilyawen."

Mothlin and Tari made excellent time, and Mothlin was glad of it. After only a week, he thought he could hear the falls of the Nimrodel, which meant that they were close to Lothlórien. He was counting on the Golden Wood to be a stop to rest and replenish his stores of food and arrows, and the sooner they arrived there, the better. Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn would doubtless have heard of Cilyawen's abduction, as well. They were bound to want any details Mothlin could provide.

It was with intense relief, then, that he came to the Nimrodel late that same day, and at evening stood at the edge of Lothlórien. Tari's flanks were heaving and glistening with sweat and weariness under Mothlin's legs - she neighed in a faint request. Mothlin quickly leaped from her back. "How selfish of me," he whispered into Tari's ear as he unsaddled her and rubbed the sweat off her, "to not let you rest all day!" Mothlin dropped the saddle on the ground. At the sight of the burden falling, Tari whinnied with glee and pawed the air with her front legs. "Only for a short while," Mothlin admitted apologetically. "Then it has to go back on. But enjoy your freedom for now." As though she could understand his words, Tari knelt and rolled onto her back, kicking her legs in the air. Mothlin shook his head at his horse's antics and snapped off a piece of _lembas_. He chewed the bread thoughtfully, his mind on Lothlórien.

What would happen when he arrived? Probably word had reached Lothlórien by now that he was missing, but Elrohir would surely have explained why to Elrond. Mothlin need not worry about being summarily sent back to Rivendell. No, it was telling Galadriel and Celeborn the news that he feared. He could imagine all too well the Lady's clear blue eyes clouding in dismay, could almost hear Lord Celeborn's voice, trying and failing to ask questions without panic in his voice. _That_ was an encounter Mothlin would not enjoy.

But there was nothing for it but to endure. He and Tari both needed a few days of true rest, and most of his arrows had been spent against the goblins in the Misty Mountains. Mothlin swallowed the last of the _lembas_ section and got to his feet. "Tari!" he called. She had had only about five minutes of freedom, but Mothlin fervently wished to sleep in Lothlórien, and not on the edge of the forest, too close to Orcs and goblins.

She came, but reluctantly. Mothlin was picking up the saddle when he caught the resigned gleam in Tari's eyes. She had done things that no Elf would ever have done for him.

Mothlin made up his mind abruptly. "Come on, girl," he said cheerfully. "_I_ will be the beast of burden for once." Shouldering the saddle, he beckoned her after him. Bemused by her Elf's odd behavior, but definitely grateful that she would not have to wear the hateful saddle for now, Tari followed him.

He could only carry the saddle so far. As soon as Mothlin's ears picked up the sound of a stream nearby, he let the saddle slide off his shoulders and pillowed his head on it. "Sleep," he urged Tari. She seemed willing to comply - she knelt in the autumn leaves beside Mothlin and laid her head on the ground. Mothlin reached out and stroked her back. His eyes drifted shut, and he fell asleep with his fingers playing in Tari's mane.

He woke to soft sunlight on his face and a leaf brushing his neck. Mothlin opened his eyes slowly and stared up for a moment at the towering tops of the mallyrn, breathing in the morning air contentedly. Beneath his fingers, Tari stirred and blew out a breath.

Mothlin turned his head to look at her. "Ready to move on?" he asked, and pushed himself up from the ground. Tari clambered to her feet less willingly, and whinnied plaintively as Mothlin put the saddle on her back. "I'm sorry," he said into her ear, stroking her mane, "but it's only for a short while. When we come to Caras Galadhon, you can take it off. I promise." Unconvinced but making herself believe him, Tari sighed in a long-suffering way and permitted Mothlin to mount.

Their morning ride was peaceful and silent. Mothlin closed his eyes often to listen to the quiet of the forest and to feel the sunlight on his face. Tari moved smoothly and quietly, relaxed as she had not been since they left Rivendell. As they drew deeper into Lothlórien, though, Mothlin could sense many pairs of eyes watching them - not unfriendly eyes, but not friendly either. He kept his silence, thinking it best to say nothing to alert the watchers' suspicions. He had the sense, too, that he was expected. Otherwise Mothlin felt sure that he would have had firsthand experience with the diligence and thoroughness of Lothlórien's wardens. Galadriel must have heard the news from Rivendell.

At last the sound of voices calling through the trees reached his ears. They were near Caras Galadhon. Mothlin patted Tari's neck. "Soon, girl," he told her. She seemed to take heart at her coming freedom, and her pace quickened to a trot. Sooner than Mothlin had expected - not quite midday - they came into view of Caras Galadhon. Mothlin leaped lightly from Tari's back and led her to the first Elf he saw, a woman carefully fletching an arrow. "My lady, I come from Imladris with tidings for the Lady Galadriel. Could you tell me where I might find her?"

The woman stared at him, first in surprise, then in hope. "You come from Rivendell?" she asked, as though she hardly dared to hope it was so. "The Lady Galadriel will be most glad to hear your news, then!" She dropped the arrow she was fletching on top of a pile of arrows and beckoned. "Come. I will take you to her." Raising her voice, she called, "Beleg, take his horse and see she is stabled!" Mothlin stroked Tari's nose and whispered, "See? What did I tell you?" before Beleg coaxed Tari to follow him to the stables. That taken care of, Mothlin followed the woman up a set of stairs carved into an enormous mallorn.

At the top of the steps sat a woman Mothlin had never before seen in his life, but he knew who she was, and not because she was the one he was being taken to. Only a fool could have been blind to the strength and wisdom that shone from every inch of her, that gazed calmly forth from her eyes. He bowed low. "My lady Galadriel," he said, "I am Mothlin, foster son of Elrohir Elrondion and Cilyawen Aglarfin. I come from Rivendell with news to give and a favor to ask."

Galadriel's voice shook just an iota when she made her reply. "I welcome you to Lothlórien, Mothlin." She looked at the woman who had brought him and said, "My thanks to you, Calendae." The woman curtseyed and left. As soon as Calendae had left them, Galadriel rose and walked swiftly to Mothlin, taking his hands in a grip that hurt. "Mothlin, you must tell me everything." Mothlin could see now the iron control that the Lady had exerted over herself to not show her anxiety - up close, her entire body was trembling, and her eyes were clouded by fear. "Please."

"May I sit?" Mothlin asked quietly. "I would rather, if I tell you this tale, be seated."

"Of course," Galadriel said softly. "Of course."

Mothlin pulled over a stool and set it in front of Galadriel's throne. He closed his eyes for a moment to gain control of himself. His throat was closed, and he swallowed down the lump several times. _Do not think of your foolishness. Think of her pain. She needs to hear this. Which is more important - your conscience, or her?_

He raised his eyes from his clenched hands to Galadriel's eyes. Taking a deep breath, he told her everything.


	6. An Awkward Moment

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Six**

Galadriel had been most gracious to Mothlin, in spite of the news he brought. She had given orders for him to be given a fine room, and had had both Mothlin and Tari fed well. Standing in the middle of his room, Mothlin looked around it and sighed. He did not have his foster-father's way with words - he had not been able to express his gratitude to Galadriel very well. He had been so embarrassed at his stammered thanks that he had not told her that he planned to leave the next night. He owed Tari at least one night of rest in a proper stable, but after that they had to press on. Cilyawen could not wait for them, and her captor most definitely would not. For the thousandth time, Mothlin wondered why she had been taken, what the Enemy could possibly still want with her after she had killed his consort and some of his Orcs and had escaped alive from Dol Guldur.

Mothlin paced his room, thinking. He had gotten a look at a small map of Middle-earth that Galadriel possessed, and had calculated his distances by that. From Lothlórien he and Tari could follow the Anduin down to the end of Mirkwood, and then venture into the forest and to Dol Guldur. The Anduin journey would take, he estimated, a week at the least, if all went well. But it surely would - it was a river, after all. There was no less straightforward method of traveling than to follow a river.

But the Mirkwood leg of the trip, now that was something entirely different. Mothlin was quite sure that King Thranduil's palace was very beautiful and secure and all that, but that said nothing of the realm he ruled. From all reports he had heard of the great forest, it was dark and dangerous, roamed by spiders and laced with maze-like paths that one could get lost in. Mothlin was not looking forward to entering Mirkwood, and Tari would be even less enthusiastic about it. _What we need,_ Mothlin thought, _is a guide. Someone who knows Mirkwood and is not afraid of it. I wonder if an Elf here would accompany us._ He would ask at the evening meal that Galadriel had asked him to come to. He devoutly hoped that no one asked him about Cilyawen. He could not go into the tale of her abduction again.

Mercifully, no one had the tactlessness to ask when he came into the hall and took his seat on Lord Celeborn's left side. But halfway through the meal, as Mothlin was quietly scooping a few pieces of choice meat onto his plate, a female Elf seated next to him asked, "Aren't you Lord Elrohir's foster-son?"

"I am," Mothlin replied, spearing the last piece he wanted and putting it onto his plate.

"Who were your parents?" asked the Elf, blinking witlessly at him.

Mothlin nearly dropped the plate of meats. He _did_ drop his knife as he caught the plate of meat two-handed. Murmurs raced around the table, but from what few words reached Mothlin's ears, none were derogatory comments about his lack of grace, for which he was profoundly grateful. "Alakien, be still," Celeborn commanded, and the girl dropped her eyes sulkily to her plate. _Impetuous,_ Mothlin thought, recognizing the meaning of her name. _It suits her._ He glanced thankfully at Lord Celeborn, who gave him a smile in return, but his mind was suddenly whirling with questions set off by Alakien's thoughtless one.

_Who_ were _my parents?_ Mothlin racked his mind to try to remember, but he couldn't recall a single memory that came before the night Cilyawen and Elrohir found him. The realization sent a chill through him. _They said I was bruised, cut, beaten, tortured. But why? Why me, of all people the Orcs could have taken? And why in the name of all that is good can I not remember a thing from before that? I haven't any more idea who my parents were than I have of why Sauron wants Cilyawen._

Mothlin had no more appetite that night, and he left the table early. It might have comforted him to know that as soon as he left, nearly everyone at the table began to upbraid Alakien for her thoughtlessness. Only Galadriel and Celeborn said nothing, but their eyes met across the table, eyes full of worry and fear.

The next night, as he had promised himself, Mothlin left Lothlórien. He wrote a hasty note and left it on his bed. Galadriel and Celeborn would understand why he had to leave. He told himself that over and over, like a mantra, as he made his silent way to the stables.

Tari was standing alert in her stall, as though she knew too that they were leaving. She whinnied resignedly as Mothlin lowered the saddle onto her back and strapped on his saddlebags, filled with a replenished supply of _lembas_ and other foods. Mothlin checked to make sure his bow, quiver, and sword were secure in their bindings to the saddle, touched the belt sheaths of his twin daggers and secured them as well, then climbed onto Tari's back. He didn't bother trying to conceal his path - Galadriel would not send men out after him, something he was sure Elrond would have done. She might as well know where he was going.

He had studied Galadriel's map carefully that day, and he had a fairly good idea of where the Anduin River ran by Lothlórien. He turned Tari's head to the river, and was rewarded within a few minutes when the sound of running water reached his ears. Fifteen minutes later, when the shore of the Anduin came into sight, Mothlin sighed outright and dismounted. "We'll both walk for now," he told Tari quietly. "No need to hide our tracks here, and we still have a long way to go." Tari shook her head, tossing her mane, and followed Mothlin as, with a hand on her neck, he chose a path along the bank and guided her.

They would follow the river for a week, Mothlin thought as he stepped carefully on the riverbank. Then Mirkwood. And then - he banished thoughts of fear. He would deal with Mirkwood and the Enemy when he had to, and not a moment sooner. Anticipating was fighting Sauron's battle for him.

Sauron cursed softly, his essence drifting around the underground chamber he resided in. Snaga was proving stronger than he had thought. He had expected to shatter her shell of bravery, release her fear of him, and make her subject to his will, but she was resisting, and quite effectively, too. She was still afraid of him -he could sense that, could smell on her - but her shield was tougher than he had anticipated. And his plans would work only if she cooperated.

No matter. Sauron let go of himself - quite easy to do without a physical form - and brought his mind to his thrall. The creature was making better progress than Sauron had dared to hope. Undetected, the thrall had passed through the Elf-witch's golden realm. He laughed to think what would happen when the thrall caught up with Snaga's devoted foster-son.

Once the thrall arrived in the underground remains of Dol Guldur, Snaga would be forced to comply. She would have no choice. She would be faced with a decision that she would have to make the way he wanted, and then she and her foster-son would both die. **At last,** Sauron thought, gathering his wispy floating consciousness back below ground. **This one time she will not be able to thwart me. I will see her bow at last, as she should have done years ago. I will be the victor this time, and she cannot help but bend to my wishes.**

Sauron channeled his thoughts toward the thrall, burning them into his creature's foremost thoughts. **Faster. Go faster. Come to me.** He felt the thrall obey. Soon. Oh, so soon, so soon he could almost taste the sweetness of victory. He laughed as best he could without a body. It was an eerie laugh that echoed down the dirt halls of Dol Guldur, and Cilyawen, huddled in her cell, clutching her tattered cloak around her for warmth, heard it and shivered, knowing it meant nothing good.


	7. Elenanar

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Seven**

Mothlin supposed Mirkwood had been a lovely realm once, before the shadow fell on it, but there wasn't much to admire of it from the outside. He stared at it as the shadows of night deepened over the trees, wondering why anyone would choose to live within the darkness of that forest.

He dismounted from Tari and patted her neck. "We're sleeping here tonight," he told her. "I want to make Thranduil's palace in one day - I don't much fancy sleeping in there, fair game for a spider, and neither do you, I'd bet." Tari shook her head emphatically, making her mane swish around Mothlin's face, and he laughed as he unsaddled her. "Wake me if anything comes, all right?" he whispered, grinning. "Here, girl." He fished out an apple and held it out on his palm. Tari lipped it, and then bit into it eagerly. Mothlin kept it on his hand as she ate the whole apple, then wiped off his hand on his tunic and cut himself some meat.

Night was coming fast, and Mothlin was getting sleepy. He barely had time to finish his dinner before his eyelids were drooping. He wrapped his cloak around him, carefully tucking his two dagger hilts close to his hands and within the cloak's folds, then lay down. Despite the pebbly ground, Mothlin was asleep in less than five minutes.

He woke up to dawn, dew, and a blade at his throat.

At first he didn't notice the blade, only the softly growing light and the unpleasant dampness of his cloak. He opened his eyes, and only then did Mothlin register that there was something cold and hard and pointy at his neck. He froze, his eyes finding the long sword and traveling up the length of the blade to a long-fingered hand. Past the hand and covering the arm was a sleeve, a long silken sleeve, and past the arm in the sleeve was a face. Mothlin tipped his head back carefully and stared up at the face. It was a girl, and an Elf at that, with very long and very red hair framing her face. "Good morning to you too," he said, fighting to keep his voice casual. "Is this the Mirkwood way of reminding travelers that they overslept?"

Was it the early morning light, or did the girl almost smile before she bit her lips to stop it? "Who are you? What is your purpose in Mirkwood?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, my lady, I'm not technically _in_ Mirkwood. I'm just outside Mirkwood. My purpose is my own, but my name is Mothlin. And I would greatly appreciate it if you would remove your sword and tell me your name."

She looked skeptical, but she moved the tip of the sword. Now it rested in the grass just by Mothlin's ear. "I am Elenanar," she said, "and this is part of my training as a patrol guard."

"Patrol guard? In a dress?" Mothlin just barely choked off his laughter. Elenanar glared at him, and the look in her green eyes made him very glad he had not laughed.

"This was the first thing I found when I woke up four hours ago," Elenanar informed him, "and Berne was yelling at me to get moving, so I put it on. And I had enough about it from him, and I don't need it from someone I don't even know!"

"All right, all right!" Mothlin held up his hands in surrender. Elenanar looked so smug, though, that he added quietly, "But a _court dress_?"

_Mistake,_ Mothlin thought, as Elenanar returned the sword tip to his throat. "All right, I really apologize now, and I won't mention it again!" he protested. "I just need to pass through Mirkwood very badly. Now be a good girl and let me through."

"'_Be a good girl'_?" Elenanar repeated. She sounded angry, but also affronted. "I am a thousand and forty years old, and no one has called me a good girl' since I passed eight hundred! And anyway, no one gets through without telling a patrol guard their purpose."

Mothlin groaned. He could hardly tell this unpredictable girl that he was going to Dol Guldur - she'd probably drag him before King Thranduil, and then there would be more delay. But she was as obstinate as her red hair had promised she would be, and there would be no getting by her without giving her his destination. And she would probably slit his throat if she found out he was lying.

He curled his hands around his dagger hilts, working the blades free of their sheaths under his cloak. "I'm going to Dol Guldur," he said, and rolled instantly away from her swing in to where his throat had been. Mothlin came up on his feet, and tossed his cloak away, his hands glittering with the twin daggers. Elenanar blanched visibly, but she got her sword up and waited for his attack. Mothlin noticed that her grip on the sword was rudimentary. _I thought the Mirkwood guards would be especially well-trained,_ Mothlin thought as he too fell into a crouch, waiting for her attack as she waited for his.

Finally she broke, and came at him, wielding the sword with both hands. Mothlin rose up from his crouch and caught her blade between his daggers. A few deft twists and the sword flew from Elenanar's hand and onto the grass behind him. Elenanar froze perfectly still for a moment, the muscles of her face working furiously. It looked to Mothlin as though she were trying not to cry. Then she stepped back. "Very well, then. But you still have not gotten past me, and you won't unless you kill me."

Mothlin's eyes widened. "Believe me, I have no wish to kill you."

"If you want to pass to Dol Guldur, you will have to. I may not like being a patrol guard, and I may not be a very good one, but I will not move and let you go to the Enemy." Her delicately pointed chin was quivering, as was her lower lip, but she stared, white-faced and resolute, at him anyway.

With a sigh of hopelessness, Mothlin lowered his daggers. "Sit down, Elenanar. I haven't told you the whole truth, and there's no need for you to die without knowing all the circumstances."

"Don't patronize me," she replied, stung, but she sat cautiously down on the ground, watching Mothlin carefully. He too sat, and laid his daggers by his side.

"Have you heard in Mirkwood that Lady Cilyawen was captured from Rivendell?" Mothlin began.

Elenanar's face lit up. "The one who was the Enemy's prisoner for her whole life? We heard about her escape from Dol Guldur with Lady Undomiel and Mithrandir." Her face fell as she registered Mothlin's news. "She's been captured again?"

"And taken back to Dol Guldur," Mothlin finished grimly. "Orcs came into a feast one night and took her away. I was - I am her foster-son."

"Oh!" Elenanar gasped. "Oh, I'm so sorry –" Comprehension registered on her delicate features. "So you're going there to rescue her!"

"Yes," Mothlin confirmed, surprised at how swiftly she had put it all together. "I stopped a week ago in Lothlórien and told Lady Galadriel of the news. If it would convince you of my good faith, you can look at my cloak - it's Lórien-woven." He reached for his gray cloak and passed it to Elenanar. One glance was enough to assure her that he was telling the truth.

Then she looked up. "But you cannot reach Dol Guldur without help," she said. "The spiders are particularly thick there, and you can't fight them all off on your own."

He grinned. The flush in her cheeks and the spark in her eyes betrayed her idea. "You're welcome to come with me if you want," he said, before she could offer to do the same thing.

"Oh!" Elenanar flushed as red as her hair. "Thank you." She leaped to her feet eagerly, but then suddenly burst out, "But I'm not very good with weapons, you saw that. And - well, it's not fair to burden you with me when I can't help you all that much." Conscience pangs were written all over her face.

"Elenanar, it would take me far too long to hunt down a more skilled companion, and time is the one thing Cilyawen does not have." Mothlin got to his feet and scooped his daggers up from the ground. "Are you a good guide?"

"Yes!" she answered proudly. "That's the one part of being a patrol guard that I'm good at."

"Why are you training to be one if you don't like it and aren't good at it?" Mothlin wondered.

Elenanar groaned the groan of one who was long surrounded by blockheaded fools. "My cousin's idea. He thinks that it runs in the family to be skilled with weapons." She blushed embarrassedly. "I suppose I am, if a needle counts as a weapon. But real weapons, bows, daggers, swords - I'm hopeless with them. At least I proved my cousin's belief wrong. Maybe then he won't inflict it on my sisters."

"Who is your cousin?" Mothlin asked curiously.

"Prince Legolas," Elenanar answered in surprise. "Didn't you know? I'm part of the Mirkwood royal family." She noticed Mothlin's face, frozen in shock, and stopped talking abruptly. "But it doesn't really matter, does it?" she finally asked after a few moments of silence.

"Matter?" Mothlin repeated. "Matter? Elenanar, I'm going to be riding toward Dol Guldur with a close kinswoman to the king of Mirkwood and you think it doesn't _matter_?"

Elenanar's lip and chin were quivering again. She was making a valiant effort to hold them still, but it was no use. "I can never get past that!" she cried. "I can never do _anything_ without being reminded that I'm royalty and have to be careful of myself! I'm so stifled as a princess that I can never be a person! I thought you knew and wouldn't worry about that - I thought you were different." She balled her hand up and covered her mouth with it. "I'm not crying," she said as a lone tear fell down her face, her words muffled by her hand over her mouth. "I'm not," she repeated defiantly.

"Of - of course you're not," Mothlin replied quickly, somewhat uneasy. No girl he'd ever talked to had cried in his presence. He had often fantasized about Laureloth coming to him in tears for comfort, but he had never had any experiences with a real-life crying girl. Not even Cilyawen had ever cried in his hearing. But here was Elenanar, crying and bitterly disappointed and trying to pretend that she was not in tears. Mothlin was flabbergasted. Finally, unable to stand the silence that was broken only by Elenanar's stifled gasp-sobs, Mothlin stepped over to her and touched her shoulder. She looked up, startled, and coughed quickly, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. "I wasn't crying," she whispered. "I'm sorry to have yelled at you." She coughed once more and straightened. "You may pass through Mirkwood, Lord Mothlin. Forgive me for my behavior."

Her resignation, especially after her spirited outburst, broke Mothlin's heart. "Stop that," he said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "Stop that. I _don't_ mind if you're royalty, and I'd love to have you accompany me if you want to."

She looked up, her eyes both painfully hopeful and conflicted. "But - but you're right, it does matter, and I wouldn't be much help anyway –"

"Do you want to come with me?" he interrupted. "Yes or no."

"Yes," Elenanar said hesitantly.

"Then come. I honestly don't mind." Mothlin grinned at her. "We can ride double on Tari, she won't mind either."

"Tari?"

"My horse."

"Oh. Oh!" Elenanar cried. "But these are the worst clothes to go adventuring in, and I don't have my own supplies –"

"Stop it!" Mothlin told her. "We'll manage. You can sew the dress into pants and cut off the loose parts of your sleeves. And we'll just share around the food. Tari can crop grass, and there's more than I'd ever eat by myself." He could see that, tempted as Elenanar was, she still wasn't convinced. "Please," Mothlin asked softly. "Please. I really would like it if you came with me."

"Honestly?" she asked, her eyes wide with hope.

"Honestly," Mothlin confirmed.

Elenanar's wet face broke into a smile. "Thank you, Mothlin," she said quietly. "Then - I think I will come."

"Good!" Mothlin heaved a relieved sigh. "Breakfast first, then. I'm starving, and if you've been up four hours before dawn, I'd guess you are too." Elenanar nodded eagerly, and Mothlin laughed. "Come on then, let's see what I have from Lothlórien in the way of food."

"Not _lembas_ bread, I hope," Elenanar said, following Mothlin to where Tari, blithely unconcerned, was eating what grass she could find that was not within the eaves of Mirkwood. "All the patrol guards eat is _lembas_, or at least that's what it feels like to me."

Mothlin laughed again. "Not right now, I promise - I'm getting sick of it too." He reached inside and rummaged around. In no time he had come up with a loaf of proper bread, some cheese - _Bless Lady Galadriel,_ he thought fervently - and his refilled water skin. "Will these do for breakfast?" he asked, holding them up for Elenanar to see.

Her face lit up with glee. "Perfect!" She appropriated the loaf of bread and began cutting it into slices with one of her daggers. Mothlin sat down on the ground, leaning against a rock, and did the same thing with the cheese. _This is going to be nice, having company,_ he thought. He looked over at Elenanar, expertly slicing bread with a clearly inexpert grip on the dagger, and smiled. _Very nice,_ he thought happily, feeling relaxed for the first time since he left Rivendell. "Want a piece of cheese?" he asked, holding it out to her.

She took it and smiled back.


	8. Thieves in the Dark

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Eight**

Sauron watched as, once again, the Orcs hauled Snaga before him. Her spirit was weakening - he could tell. He swore to himself. She must not be weak when the time came. She must be strong - but she must be malleable to his will.

It seemed that that was not possible. He could have her either weak and obedient, or strong and defiant. He decided to go with strong. There were ways of subduing a prisoner that he had not yet tried on her. **"Why has she not been fed properly?"** he demanded of her Orc guards.

It amused Sauron to see Orcs fidget uneasily. Finally one of them spoke. "My lord, you commanded -"

**"I reverse the command, you fool. Feed her well. See that she is healthy."** The Orcs muttered, but bowed. **"And none of your filthy draught, now!"** Sauron added as they turned to leave his presence. **"Elvish food. Food to build her strength."** Now completely bewildered, the Orcs bowed again and shuffled out of the underground chamber.

"Why so kind all of a sudden?" Snaga asked him bitterly. "You're going to kill me anyway, so why bother making me healthy?"

He smiled evilly, wishing she could see it and feel fear. **"Ah, but it's the manner of your death that is important."** He touched her cheek - she pulled away from his spectral touch in horror and disgust. **"But make no mistake, Snaga, you will die."**

"My name is Cilyawen," she said coldly.

**"Here your name is what I choose to call you."**

"What a fool you still are!" she laughed suddenly. "A true name is not what one is called by others; it is what one calls oneself. It is what I choose to stand for me and all that I do. I am the maiden of the passage. I escaped you, for all your power and strength and evil, and I will not give in to you now that I have known freedom. You cannot make me bow to you anymore, much as you try, and if I die, I will die as myself, not as who you think I am!"

Sauron realized that he was poised to strike her, to maul her, to kill her. He restrained himself with an effort. This was abominable. He needed her strong, so he could not punish her for her words. He spat, but the spit went nowhere. **"And you will die,"** he repeated lamely.

"I know that," she answered, and now he saw more than a trace of a quiver in her voice. Not so steadfast and brave after all, then. "But I will not let you reach me," she added.

It was too late. Already he was reaching into her thoughts, extracting images of a tall dark-haired Elf who was quite handsome by Elven standards, of an equally tall and beautiful Elf with golden hair - **Galadriel,** Sauron thought with a hiss of hatred - another tall dark-haired Elven woman with unsurpassed beauty - and a familiar face, one he knew intimately, one whose presence in Snaga's thoughts made Sauron want to crow with victory. It was her foster-son, the orphaned Elvish brat who even now was being hunted by his thrall, chased inexorably closer to the ruins of Dol Guldur. Good, he had a hold on her now. Now he could truly start to reach her. Perhaps obedience and strength were possible after all.

_She was back again in the dungeons of Dol Guldur, hearing Ghnakh's footsteps draw closer. This was familiar - it was her escape from Dol Guldur with Gandalf and Arwen. She crouched low in her filthy cell, long dagger at the ready for when he opened the door. Then she heard another voice talking in Black Speech, and her heart sank. She would fight them all, though, if it meant she had a chance at freedom. Ghnakh opened the cell door, and she stabbed him with her dagger -_

_And looked into the blue eyes of another Orc, who pulled off his helmet and he was Arwen, and she smiled and laughed to find her cousin, as she'd known she would -_

_Except that then Arwen became Elrohir, and with a cry of even greater joy she threw herself at him and kissed him -_

_But Elrohir's companion was not Gandalf, because he took his own helmet off and he was an Orc, and he drew his sword and ran at Elrohir, and she cried out and tried to put herself in the way of the blade, but she was too late, it ran through him to come out on the other side, and he sank to the ground, his blood pooling onto the floor -_

_And then he was Mothlin, her beloved foster-son who was a true son in all but the fact, and he was lying in her arms the night she had found him, but this time he looked up at her and gasped, "Naneth," as he had that night, but this time she knew he meant her and not his dead mother -_

_And the Orc who had killed whoever it was she held in her arms raised his sword and laughed, and he wasn't an Orc anymore either, he was a great powerful being who she had never seen in the flesh, but who she knew was Sauron. He laughed again, and she knew once more the cold icy terror of being entirely in his power, subject to his will, and she knew that this time she would never escape -_

And she sat up, gasping, clutching the thin blanket she had been provided with, and staring around at her subterranean prison, completely empty of anyone but herself.

Cilyawen lay very still, staring around the dark prison, breathing heavily with fear. She knew it had been a dream, but it had all been so real - Elrohir stabbed as she clung to him, Mothlin dying, and Sauron...Oh, blessed Valar, Sauron had been the worst.

Then she sat up and shook herself as bravely as she could. "Stop being a fool!" she scolded herself, still darting frightened glances around the cell. "This is exactly what he sent you that nightmare for - so you would be scared and subservient. Stop doing what he makes you do!"

But she knew, with a terrified certainty, that she could not hold out if many more of those dreams were sent into her mind while she slept...

Mothlin thought, not for the first time, that he was very lucky to have Elenanar with him. For all that she hated being a patrol guard, she knew the paths of Mirkwood like the back of her hand, and she could find and follow them too. It had been she who had thought of the fastest way to reach Dol Guldur, and she amazed Mothlin by how easily she could find a path.

"It comes in handy, of course," she shrugged when he asked her. "But it's not a skill I would have desperately wanted."

Curiously, he asked, "And what is a skill you desperately want?"

Elenanar blushed. "I can't tell you," she mumbled, her face as red as an autumn leaf.

Mothlin grinned mischievously. "Of course you can!" he urged. "Tell me!"

"No!" Elenanar refused, lengthening her stride to walk ahead of him, so that he could no longer see her red face. "No, I - I just can't. It's too embarrassing."

"Elenanar, I'm not going to laugh!" Mothlin protested, catching up. "I'll let you ride on Tari if you tell me," he coaxed. "Please? I'm very curious now."

"Oh, fine." Elenanar kept walking at her breakneck speed. "If there was one thing I wish I could do..." She stopped, and Mothlin coughed to keep her talking. "Well, I wish I could kiss," she said very quickly, and boosted herself up onto Tari's back.

"You _what_?" Mothlin demanded.

"I knew you were going to laugh!" Elenanar accused. "It's embarrassing to say it to a boy."

"I happen to be a thousand and sixty-five!" Mothlin complained. "I'm not a boy."

"Fine. It's embarrassing to say to a male." Elenanar looked skeptically at him from where she sat on Tari. "Satisfied?"

"I guess I'll have to be," he muttered. "But - blessed Valar, of all the things you could wish for - why _that_, Elenanar?"

"Because," she retorted, "you have no idea how humiliating it is to have someone try to kiss you, and you don't know what in Arda you're supposed to do! I do know, and it's..." She swallowed hard and shook her head. "Suffice it to say that he...let it be known...that I was not experienced, and then no one showed interest in me anymore, and then Legolas packed me off to the patrol guards. It's not an experience I like to remember."

Mothlin looked up at her, startled by the undercurrent of anger in her voice. Her eyes were unnaturally bright. As he watched, she blinked fiercely and coughed. Mothlin felt ashamed of himself for pressing her. "Elenanar - I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"Thank you," she said quietly.

They traveled in silence for a short time, until Elenanar pointed out the upcoming fork. "We want the left one," she told Mothlin.

He looked up at her, where she sat on Tari. "Elenanar, when we get back from Dol Guldur, introduce me to that Elfling fool. I would dearly like to teach him the meaning of courtesy." He cracked his knuckles to exaggerate the point.

His words had the hoped-for effect - Elenanar's wet face broke into a sunny grin. She laughed, and Mothlin grinned up at her. "I'll do that," she promised. "Remind me when we come back."

They made camp that night in a tiny clear area of the forest that took even Elenanar an hour to find. Mothlin had gotten quite footsore following her around as she muttered, "I know it's here somewhere! I wish I had a map...why do they never make maps of this forest? Where is it...?" She had finally located it, however, and Mothlin had spread out his cloak and Tari's saddle blanket while Elenanar got out the saddlebag with food. Their rations were running low, and Elenanar looked very guilty when Mothlin handed her a few slices of bread and took the same for himself. "I can go back," she offered quietly, not eating the bread. "It's not fair to you -"

"I have plenty of _lembas_ for when we run out of real food," Mothlin answered unconcernedly, biting into his first slice of bread.

"But you didn't expect to have another person to feed - it's just not fair to you."

Mothlin looked up from the bread. "Elenanar. Stop it." He reached over and took her hand. "I don't mind at all. In fact, I _like_ having a person to talk to." Tari raised her head and neighed, affronted. "I love you, Tari," Mothlin called quickly to appease her. "But it's just not the same. So please don't mention that again. We can manage." He raised his eyebrows at her and grinned. "Eat."

Elenanar slowly lifted the first slice of bread to her lips and took a bite.

After their meager dinner was finished, they lay down to sleep, Mothlin on his cloak, Elenanar on Tari's saddle blanket. "I didn't realize how tired I am," Mothlin remarked through a yawn as he lay down.

Elenanar muttered a noncommittal grunt that might have been "Good night" and rolled over on the blanket. Mothlin grinned, closed his eyes, and would have been astonished at how quickly he fell asleep if he had been awake to see it.

He woke to a high-pitched yell of anger and distress, and an equally angry reply, snapped under someone else's breath. "Why can I never get a good night's sleep?" Mothlin grumbled to himself as he opened his eyes.

And froze. There was a light shining directly in his eyes, and the vague shape of a person was framed in it. He heard another yell, and this time his brain, struggling to understand what was going on, registered the yelling voice as Elenanar's. "Be silent, girl!" he heard someone else hiss. Then there was a shriek of pain, and a muttered curse. He guessed Elenanar had not taken kindly to being called "girl" again.

Then he stopped wondering about Elenanar, because the person silhouetted against the light was pulling a dagger from a waist sheath and advancing on him.

Mothlin didn't think - he reacted. He rolled out of reach of the person with the dagger and scrambled to his feet. His hands flew to his side sheaths - and he gasped as he remembered that his daggers were with Tari. The person was advancing faster now, running at him, and Mothlin was weaponless.

"Berne, you fool, don't hurt him!" shouted Elenanar's voice. The figure paused, and Elenanar went on, "And put out that light before it draws the spiders!" The light, except for a small torch held in Berne's hand, went out. "That's better," Elenanar said.

"Your Highness," came a voice from what seemed to be Berne, "you must return to the palace immediately."

"I will do nothing of the kind," Elenanar refused flatly. "This Elf needs a guide to take him through Mirkwood. He called upon me in the name of the king, and I must honor that pledge." Mothlin bit back an incredulous smile at the ease with which she lied. "So you can tell Adar that I'm sorry, but I have a more important task to do than try to shoot a bow." By the scant light of Berne's torch, Mothlin saw Elenanar fold her arms across her chest and wait.

Berne rounded on Mothlin. "You!" he barked. "Is this the truth?"

"It is," Mothlin said instantly. "I called upon her in the name of King Thranduil." He glanced at Elenanar for help - what on earth did _that_ mean?

"Did you know that she was a princess?" Berne snapped.

"Not at first," Mothlin replied with perfect honesty.

Elenanar huffed angrily. "Since my word has been proven true, will you stop believing that he kidnapped me, Berne? I'm sorry if I caused any trouble at the palace, but I can't go back just now."

Berne looked decidedly uncomfortable. Mothlin choked on a laugh - from the leader of a daring ambush to rescue the Princess Elenanar, he had just turned into an incompetent fool who didn't trust the word of his princess. "Very well," he said waspishly. "Beleg! Come on." He spun around on his heels and stomped away from Mothlin and Elenanar's camp.

No sooner had they disappeared than Elenanar and Mothlin both burst out laughing. "Did you see his _face_..." Elenanar gasped, clutching her stomach. "Oh, it was so funny!"

"What - why were they after us anyway?" Mothlin managed to ask between gales of laughter.

"They thought you'd kidnapped me, I think. Some such stupid notion." Elenanar gasped one final laugh and sat slowly down on Tari's blanket. Reminded that he hadn't heard his horse, Mothlin looked out into the dark forest and whistled once.

There was no answering whinny.

"Tari?" Mothlin called, his heart sinking. "Elenanar, they wouldn't have taken Tari, would they?"

In the space of a moment, Elenanar went absolutely white. "I will skin them alive," she whispered shakily. "Come on! They can't be far gone." She sprang to her feet. Mothlin called Tari's name one last time, in the vain hope that she might not have heard him. And this time, he heard what were unmistakably her neigh of pure anger and fury, and the much quieter voices of Berne and Beleg from the same direction.

Elenanar, hearing them at the same time Mothlin did, sucked in a huge breath of air and shrieked, "Berne! Help!"

Mothlin turned to stare at her, but the noises of Tari's protests grew louder, and he heard her thundering towards their camp. As she drew into eyesight, Mothlin saw that Berne was mounted on her back, and Beleg was running beside her. They raced back into the camp and gasped, "Princess, what -"

Mothlin quickly stepped to Tari's side and pulled Berne off her back unceremoniously. "Thank you," Elenanar said coldly. "Next time, do not steal our horse."

"But - but are you in danger?" Berne stammered stupidly.

"Why would I be in danger except from your foolishness in taking our horse?" Elenanar snapped. "Be gone, and do not trouble us again."

Utterly cowed by the raw anger in her voice, Berne and Beleg slowly backed away into the forest.

Elenanar nodded. "There." She lay back down on Tari's blanket and sighed sleepily. "Good night, Mothlin," she mumbled.

Mothlin stroked Tari's nose and put his arms around her neck. The horse nibbled his hair affectionately, but he could feel her shaking with anger under his hands. "Ssshh," he whispered quietly. "It's all right, girl. You're safe now." Finally Tari calmed down enough to let Mothlin out of her sight, and he was able to lie down and sleep untroubled for the rest of the night.


	9. Spiders in the Forest

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Nine**

Mothlin was the first one to wake up the next morning - mercifully with no swords at his throat this time. He stretched leisurely and opened his eyes to the darkness of the forest. Blinking to see out of them, he massaged the kinks out of his neck and glanced over to his left. Elenanar was still asleep, with her face pressed against Tari's blanket and her red hair the only bright thing he could see. Mothlin grinned and decided she had acquitted herself so admirably last night that he would let her sleep. At least until breakfast was ready.

Mothlin got to his feet and walked carefully across the dark ground to where he'd set Tari's saddlebags down. He rummaged through them, and the results were not as good as he had hoped. There was still some cheese left, but not much, and the _lembas_ was catching his eyes more and more as the rest of the food slowly diminished. With a sigh, Mothlin fished out the last two apples and the remainder of the loaf. He shook his water skin - the small slosh from inside it was not encouraging either. He'd have to ask Elenanar to find them a stream safe to refill it from.

Apples, bread, and water skin in hand, Mothlin walked back to the sleeping Elenanar. He placed the food on his cloak, which still bore the imprint of his body from where he'd slept on it, and shook Elenanar gently, calling her name. "Elenanar," he whispered softly, "wake up."

She was still for some moments, but finally she stirred, and her breathing became louder. Mothlin shook her once more. "Elenanar, time for breakfast," he said. Unconsciously he watched her face beneath its cloak of her hair, waiting for her to open her eyes. "Come on," he coaxed, "just open your eyes to the glory of your dank, dark, miserable home." She gave a sleepy laugh, and Mothlin went on, encouraged. "Open your eyes and see the darkness all around you, and then go down to the barracks for an early morning practice session with dear Berne -"

"Say that again and I'll have to hurt you," Elenanar muttered.

Mothlin laughed. "Good morning to you too." He sat back on his heels and scooped up an apple from his cloak, placing it close to her face. She opened her eyes and saw the apple, and then she sat up, pushing her hair back, and bit into it happily. She sighed deeply as she ate it. Mothlin reached for the rest of the loaf of bread, tearing it into what he estimated to be halves, and he set her half next to her. "Don't gulp it down," he warned. "That's really all the decent food that's left." Elenanar stopped in mid-bite, staring sadly at him. "Next comes the _lembas_," Mothlin sighed. "So relish that apple and the bread."

"Oh, I will," promised Elenanar. She lifted the apple back to her mouth, and then stopped, staring at him. "You didn't - you have one too -"

"No, I didn't give you the last apple," Mothlin assured her. "There were two. One more for me." He raised it, and she nodded and tucked heartily back into her food. Mothlin took the first bite of his apple, and they ate breakfast in companionable silence while slivers of light broke the forest canopy around them.

The rest of that day was fairly uneventful, as was the next day and the day after that. Elenanar assured Mothlin that they were making excellent time, and again and again he was impressed with her tracking skills. "The one part of being a patrol guard that I'm good at," she had called it the day they met, and if anything, she had underrated herself.

Over and over she spotted an almost-concealed trail when Mothlin would have tried to hack his way through the forest, and she knew most of the safe streams. "There are no safe bushes in Mirkwood," she confessed on the second day, "but the _lembas_ will last." On the evening of the third day, Elenanar told Mothlin as they set up their makeshift camp that they could reach Dol Guldur in two or three more days. That night Mothlin's heart was lighter than it had been for the entire journey.

_Elenanar's a good traveling companion,_ he thought sleepily as he wrapped himself in his cloak. It wasn't simply that she could find streams and trails, or even that she knew her way around this gloomy maze that called itself a forest. Mothlin had found during the last three days that she had almost unflagging energy, and it was pleasant to be in her company. _In fact,_ Mothlin admitted to himself, _I'm more at ease with her than I am with most of the Elves my age in Rivendell._

Thinking of Rivendell inevitably made Mothlin think of Laureloth, the beautiful Elf he had danced with on the night Cilyawen had been captured. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her, but he found to his dismay that he could no longer perfectly visualize her face. He could see her well enough when he didn't insist on detail, but when he attempted to bring her face in with greater focus, it faded away like a wisp of smoke.

Not a little disturbed by this, Mothlin rolled onto one side. It took him a while to fall asleep.

They stopped for a midday meal by a stream that Elenanar pronounced safe. Mothlin filled their water skin and Elenanar bit off a piece of _lembas_ before she passed the bread to Mothlin. For once her cheery conversation did not lift Mothlin's spirits. He sat in silence, wondering why he couldn't visualize Laureloth as he had been able to do before.

_Maybe it's just because I haven't seen her in so long,_ he thought, trying to ignore the fact that Cilyawen's face swam constantly in his mind in perfect detail. _When I get back to Rivendell, I'll be able to picture her again._ Absentmindedly and hoping that he was right, Mothlin ate a bite of _lembas_.

"Mothlin?" Elenanar asked. "Mothlin, are you all right?"

Startled, Mothlin looked up from the _lembas._ "What? Oh, I'm fine."

"You haven't said a word all day," she persisted. "You can tell me, I won't laugh."

"It's nothing!" Mothlin snapped, more harshly than he'd meant to. Elenanar's eyes widened in surprise at his tone, and she said quietly, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize!" Mothlin told her. "You can't do anything about it." He glanced at her, annoyed at her for being so nice, then turned away from her on the rock he sat on. Resting his forehead on his hands, Mothlin stared moodily at the stream.

The two of them sat there in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes until a rustle of leaves reached Mothlin's ears. Alert instantly, he sprang to his feet and threw a glance at Elenanar. She too had heard it, because she was up on her feet and reaching for her bow, her face pale with fright and in stark contrast to her flaming hair. Mothlin stepped noiselessly over to where Tari cropped grass and removed his weapons, strapping his daggers and sword around his waist and slinging his quiver over his shoulder. The bow he carried, quickly running his hands along the wood to make it warm and limber before he strung it. Elenanar was trying to string her bow, her breathing coming shallowly as she fought with her stiff bow and her eyes darting around the surrounding forest.

So she was the one caught unawares when the spider web dropped without warning from the trees above them.

"Look out!" Mothlin shouted, throwing himself away from the sticky strands. Elenanar barely had time to look up before the web was wrapping itself around her. She cried out in horror and tried to slice through the webbing with the points of her arrows, but more webbing cascaded from the trees and imprisoned her arms.

Mothlin leaped back onto his feet and ran for her, tossing his bow over his shoulder and ripping his daggers out of their sheaths. Elenanar's continued but useless efforts to sever the webs around her were growing more panicky by the second as the never-ending webs draped over her like a macabre cloak. She twisted her head up and caught sight of the enormous spider that was making the webs - and she saw it shift position to aim its next shot of webbing at the annoying other creature coming to free its prey.

_"Mothlin, duck!"_ Elenanar screamed as the spider released the webbing. Mothlin hurled himself onto the forest floor, and the webbing slithered down to lie next to him. Satisfied that Mothlin was dead, the spider proceeded to gather up the cocoon that encased Elenanar and to fasten it securely to the trees far above Mothlin's head. "Stay still!" cried Elenanar, hoping wildly that he was not as caught by the web as he looked.

Mothlin slowly twisted his head to look upward. He saw the white sticky mess that was Elenanar high in the treetops. His hand clenched in rage on the hilts of his daggers, but he lay still as she had told him, grinding his teeth in immobile anguish for her. He saw it give the cocoon a blow, and he nearly gasped as the white mass sagged with a tiny cry. Above his head he heard the spider click to itself, satisfied. He heard the rustling of the leaves as it moved around. He could just make out its dark bulbous shape slowly maneuvering away from Elenanar.

Very cautiously, Mothlin lifted his head. Elenanar was still hanging there limply. Trying not to rustle the leaves underneath him, Mothlin got to his feet and peered into the darkness of the forest. The spider, it seemed, was gone.

Without wasting any more time, Mothlin made for the tree. He had to move at a maddeningly slow pace to avoid making noise, but he finally stood at the base. Mothlin thrust his daggers back into their sheaths, made sure they and his sword were secure, tossed his quiver onto the forest floor, and reached up to grab the lowest branch. His cheek pressed into the rough tree trunk, and Mothlin grunted as he hoisted himself slowly upwards. Branch, flail for a foothold, another branch, flail for another foothold - so went his climb, almost as slow and much more noisy than his walk to the tree. Mothlin avoided looking at Elenanar. If he thought about her caught, limp and lifeless, in the spider's cocoon, he would not be able to continue. The only way that he could keep slowly climbing was to keep his mind blank. _Don't think about the spider coming back, don't think about Tari, don't think about Elenanar, just climb!_

He thrust his hand through the mass of leaves, and at last it brushed the sticky webbing. With a grunt of satisfaction, Mothlin pulled himself up to sit on a branch near the cocoon. He shook it tentatively, whispering, "Elenanar?"

There was no answer. There wasn't even any movement.

_Don't think!_ he commanded himself. _Don't_ think _about what the spider might have done to her!_ Mothlin drew the right-side dagger, and with his left hand carefully patted the cocoon until, through the mess of white strands, he felt the top of Elenanar's head. He set the dagger to the cocoon and sawed through the webbing, taking pains to avoid the area around his hand so that he didn't cut her.

His palms grew sweaty and his breath labored as he cut through the cocoon as delicately as he could. When he had most of it around Elenanar's head gone, and he could see her red hair, he gave a gasp of relief and sheathed his dagger. Mothlin pulled asunder and brushed away the rest of the web around her head, until she was free up to her neck. "Elenanar!" he hissed urgently. "Elenanar, wake up, please be alive!" He took her by where he thought her shoulders were and shook her. "Come on, wake up!" Lightly he slapped her face on both cheeks.

Her eyelids fluttered, and Mothlin noticed with immense relief that there was still a pulse in her throat. "That's it," he coaxed, gently brushing sticky webs off the top of her head. "That's it, now open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at me."

"What?" she whispered.

"Open your eyes!" answered Mothlin. He felt like cheering. _She's all right! The spider didn't hurt her!_

Very slowly Elenanar's eyelids lifted. She blinked a few times, and then her eyes found Mothlin, and she smiled.

That smile was the most beautiful thing Mothlin had ever seen.

"Hold still," he cautioned her quickly, reaching again for his dagger. "I'll cut away the webs on one side and give you my other dagger so you can help." Elenanar held perfectly still as Mothlin hacked at the web on her right side. Now that she was awake, she helped by shaking off the webs from the inside, so the right side was free much faster. "Here," Mothlin said, pressing his dagger into her hand. "I'll do your feet -"

It was at that time that the spider decided to return.

Elenanar was reaching for the dagger when she suddenly froze. "Listen!" she hissed. Mothlin, too, froze mid-slice, and his heart turned to ice when the sound of the spider coming back came to his ears.

For one moment he was stiff with fear - the next, he made an instantaneous decision. He seized Elenanar's free arm in a tight grip, forced himself not to think of the distance to the ground, and leaped out of the tree. Elenanar screamed as the fall tore her carelessly out of the cocoon. Air rushed over Mothlin's face, and he closed his eyes to the fall and tugged Elenanar to him so that he could cushion her impact.

With a smack that rang through all of Mothlin's bones, they collided with the ground. He promptly lost all of the air in his lungs and shoved Elenanar off him to gasp it back in. His back was screaming in interesting tones of red, and his left leg was shrieking. Elenanar lay on the ground, weak with a combination of shock and pain. Mothlin twisted onto his side to look at her. "I'm sorry," he offered weakly. She didn't move, only lay face first on the ground gasping.

"Come on," Mothlin groaned, forcing himself to his knees. "We need to get away from that spider."

"Where's - Tari?" Elenanar asked. Her limbs trembled as she too pushed herself to her feet.

Mothlin stared around the clearing. "I left her over there," he muttered, blinking to clear his eyes of spots and pointing to the small circle of cropped grass - the only sign that Tari had stood there.

The spider's clicking walk drew nearer. With a colossal effort Elenanar took Mothlin's hand and pulled him to his feet. "Whistle for her," she suggested. "Here, lean on me and we'll go find her -"

"Where's my bow?" Mothlin asked wearily. "It'll be useful - if the spider - come back..."

Elenanar slowly bent down and picked up his bow, which had slipped from his back when they fell from the tree. "Here," she said, helping him slide it back over his shoulder. "Put your arm around my shoulders - we'll help each other walk -"

But no sooner did Mothlin set weight on his left leg than he gasped and stumbled, clinging to Elenanar so completely that she overbalanced, and they both toppled back onto the ground. "I'm sorry!" Mothlin gasped, releasing her and grabbing for his leg. "I'm sorry - my leg - I can't walk on it -"

Elenanar's face was paler than ever. Mothlin could just make out the spider now. It had left the trees and was coming closer to them on the ground. "Whistle for Tari," Elenanar urged him. "She'll come, and we can get away."

Mothlin put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle. The spider jerked to attention, but there was another sound, from far off, a sound that seemed very like hooves on grass. Mothlin summoned his remaining strength and whistled again, louder. The spider squealed in triumph, but now the hoof sound was definite. "She's coming," Mothlin gasped, and sank back onto the ground. "And so is the spider."

Elenanar whirled around. Mothlin saw her whole body stiffen. Then he saw her hands reach wildly for a weapon - a dagger, a bow, anything! - and he shrugged his bow and quiver off his shoulders and held them out to her. "Use these," he whispered.

She took them, and Mothlin closed his eyes. He was weak, and his leg hurt too much for there to be any fear in him. There was only the fading but present throb in his leg and the utter weakness in every part of him. He didn't even fear his approaching death - he only thought it would be a release from his pain. Dimly he heard Elenanar's voice crying out something - a yell of joy, a frustrated curse, he didn't know what. There was only darkness, and the presence of Elenanar standing over him, and a beat in the ground that felt like a galloping horse.

And then Elenanar was grabbing his arm, shaking him mercilessly and screaming words he could not understand at him. She tugged him to his feet, and he opened his eyes in time to catch her as she sagged against him, pushed to her limit. Tari was standing in front of them, and there was something approaching fast from behind - something sticky dropping onto his hand. Mothlin reached down and lifted Elenanar onto Tari - she wrapped her arms around the horse's neck and lay limply against it. Then he climbed on himself, unsure where or how he got the strength to do so, and by reflex nudged Tari in the flanks. With a whinny she burst forward, and Mothlin threw himself over Elenanar, ducked the flying strands of web sent after them, and didn't think.


	10. The Morning After

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Ten**

Mothlin drifted into consciousness some time later, and the first coherent thought he had was, _Why is everything lying on top of me?_ Then he blinked and shifted position, and he realized that, in fact, he was merely lying on the ground. He carefully pushed himself upright and saw, lying beside him, Elenanar. The skin of her face was drawn tightly over her bones, and Mothlin reached out without thinking and gently massaged the corners of her eyes, trying to loosen her face. His memory returned in a rush, and with it one overriding thought. _She saved me. We would have been killed by that spider, and she saved me._ He picked up one of her hands in both of his and, as a lord might to a lady, kissed it lightly in gratitude.

She gave a faint murmur, and Mothlin quickly dropped her hand. It would seem awkward if she woke and found him holding her hand. Mothlin busied himself with crawling across the ground to reach his bow and quiver. Most of the arrows were gone - probably they had fallen out of the quiver when Tari carried them away from the spider. But a few were left, and the bow was still intact, even if it looked strained from being strung indefinitely. Sitting back on his knees, he slipped the string off of the bow, and when he turned around Elenanar was awake and sitting up. "Are you all right?" he asked her.

"What?" she mumbled, blinking like an owl at him. "Oh, oh, yes, I'm fine." She groggily staggered to her feet. "I'm going to find a stream," she muttered.

"No!" Mothlin said quickly. "No, are you crazy? You only just got up."

"And I need a drink of water, or at least I need the water to wake myself up," Elenanar muttered.

With a sigh, Mothlin reached out and caught her hand as she walked unsteadily past him. _"No,"_ he repeated firmly. "No, you will sit down, and if anyone goes for water it'll be me. At least I woke up sooner than you did."

"But your leg -" she objected.

"Lie down," interrupted Mothlin hastily, unwilling to be reminded that he was an invalid. "I'm not actually convinced you're awake even now."

"Neither am I," she answered dryly, but she obeyed him. What put Mothlin a bit on edge was the fact that when she lay down, she curled up with her head in his lap. Within moments she was breathing deeply and evenly.

Mothlin found it very hard to concentrate on thinking about his leg and Tari and their whole mission with the constant, light pressure of her head resting in his lap. Hesitantly he lowered the bow to the forest floor and touched her bright hair. Elenanar didn't move, and Mothlin brushed his hand lightly along the length of her hair, once, then twice, until he was carefully stroking it. Elenanar's only response was, once, to shift position slightly.

_I could go to sleep myself,_ Mothlin thought with some longing. _I could just lie down next to her and close my eyes and go to sleep..._

A whinny woke him from his drowsy state. Mothlin looked quickly up, and his heart leaped when he saw Tari trotting carelessly across the grass to him. "Tari!" he whispered with a smile, and held out his hand. She lipped it affectionately and butted his head with her nose. The jostle woke Elenanar. "Oh..." she muttered, slowly sitting up. "Oh, Mothlin, did I go back to sleep in your lap?" she asked, blinking.

"Yes," Mothlin answered, steeling himself to look straight at her, even though what he really wanted was to hide in the forest until she forgot that she had ever possibly put her head in his lap, let alone slept in it.

Elenanar actually blushed, and it was she who looked away first. "Sorry," she said, her face hidden as she got to her feet behind Tari. "I mean, I didn't mean to -"

"It's all right," Mothlin interrupted, before she would embarrass herself by babbling. "Pass me the water skin - I'll go get some water." She reached into his saddlebag and extracted a water skin one quarter full, bouncing it on her hand to gauge its emptiness or fullness.

"Here, you drink half of what's in there," Elenanar suggested, tossing the skin to Mothlin. Gratefully he uncapped it and drank. The warm water moistened his dry throat - he let some of it run on his face to loosen it up, then tossed the skin back to Elenanar. She finished it and gave it back to him, and he limped off in the direction she pointed him in.

Sure enough, when Mothlin emerged from the bushes, there was a stream that looked quite harmless running quietly through the forest. Still, it never hurt to be certain, so Mothlin picked up a leaf lying on the forest floor and stuck it partway into the water. It stayed a leaf - in fact, all that happened was that it got wet. Reassured, Mothlin filled the water skin with water from the stream and bathed his whole head in the cool stream before he returned to Elenanar and Tari.

When he came back to their impromptu camp, he found Elenanar staring, wide-eyed, at his map of Mirkwood. "What?" Mothlin asked, setting down the water skin and coming to stand behind her. "What is it?"

Elenanar turned to face him, her eyes alight. "Mothlin, I finally pinpointed that stream you were just at - and we're little more than a day's ride from Dol Guldur!" Mothlin gaped at her in shock, and she pushed the map in front of him. "Look! I think we were attacked by the spider about here." Her finger tapped a spot deep within the southern tip of the forest. "And according to Legolas, who travels Mirkwood frequently and who I have no reason to doubt, there is a small stream that runs a little more than a day's ride from - well, from you-know-where. And I think that's it, because we don't know how long we were unconscious, and Tari - conceivably - could have carried us that far partly out of sheer fright."

Mothlin lifted his head, whirling with the news, and stared at Tari. "You, my beauty, are the most wonderful horse in all Middle-earth," he whispered.

Elenanar nodded fervently. "But of course today will be lost."

_"What?"_ Mothlin demanded, whipping around to face her again. "Elenanar, that's my _mother_ in there! She may have been tortured, she may be -" He couldn't say it - saying it would make the prospect more real.

"She may be dead," Elenanar said quietly, and Mothlin closed his eyes tightly against the sting that threatened tears.

"Stop it," he whispered, turning his back to her. "Don't say it. Don't say it again."

She laid aside the map and took a step closer to him. He could feel her at his back, but she didn't touch him. "Don't you realize," he whispered, "that whenever someone says - something like that - it makes it more real? That I remember then that she's in danger of her life every single moment that I waste by not going to her?" The tears would come. He could feel them swell behind his eyes, and he didn't want to cry in front of Elenanar. Angrily he swiped at his eyes with a hand dirty from forest floor and spider webs.

"Careful!" Elenanar cried, reaching for his hand to stop it. "You'll get dirt in your eyes."

Mothlin ignored her. His back still facing her, he scrubbed his hand on his tunic front, then wiped his eyes again. _I will not cry,_ he intoned as he stifled the tears. _I will - not - cry._

But his shoulders shook despite his best efforts, and Elenanar saw. Impulsively she reached out and put her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on his back, hoping that contact with another person might comfort him. His back was warm through his shirt, his tunic dirty from the spider fight.

Mothlin tensed the moment she slipped her arms around him. He could feel every inch of her that was touching him outlined with needles in his skin. But although he wanted to push her away, he helplessly took the comfort she offered, and turned around to bury his face in her shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Elenanar held him gently, whispering words he couldn't hear. He shook with stillborn sobs, but somehow Elenanar's arms remained a constant presence around him, cradling him while he cried without sound.

When there were no more sobs left within him, Mothlin tried to slip away from her, but she held him more closely. He looked down at her, and she up at him, and she reached up and brushed away a strand of his hair that had fallen into his face. She was really quite lovely, up close, Mothlin thought as the wind played with her red hair. He reached out to touch her face, carefully, as though she were made of fragile glass. Her eyes were wide, but with what emotions he couldn't tell. She caught his hand midway in its journey to her face -

Mothlin abruptly pulled his hand away and slid out of Elenanar's arms. All the air that was in him deflated without warning, and he swallowed hard, his heart beating fast and hard. He didn't look at her as he reached for the map to fold it up. "Mothlin?" she asked, quietly, her voice shaky. "Are you all right?"

"We can't, Elenanar," Mothlin said, tucking the map back into Tari's saddlebag. "We can't. Not now. There's too much going on to add...that...to it as well." He still didn't look at her. The moments-ago memory of her wide eyes and lovely face were too clear for him to be able to look at her.

There was a long silence following his words. Finally Elenanar answered, in little more than a whisper, "Then we won't." She paused, then added, still quiet, "We need to splint your leg, and we both need today to rest. We can start for Dol Guldur tomorrow."

"I'll splint my leg," Mothlin said. He didn't want to think about the possible outcomes if Elenanar did it. "You need rest more than I do anyway." He heard her give what might have been a regretful sigh. Then she curled up on the floor of the forest. Mothlin held perfectly still until he heard her breathing grow even. Then he whirled away from Tari and sat down far away from Elenanar, trying to control his own breathing.

He had spoken the truth. It _was_ too much to think about at the moment. He couldn't conceive of Elenanar as more than a friend - but somewhere within him, he desperately wanted to go back five minutes and not pull away...

He was scared. That was the real truth. He was scared of what might happen to him if he had stayed there and touched her face. And the worst part of it was that every time he looked at her from then on, he knew he would wonder what they would be like if he had not pulled away from her.

And he didn't want to find that out - but he knew he did.


	11. Consequences of Saying No

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Eleven**

Somehow Mothlin managed to sleep after he had splinted his leg. He lay without moving on the ground so as not to bounce his injured leg, and his breathing came far too fast for his own comfort. He studiously kept his eyes away from Elenanar's sleeping form, gently curled up on the leaves a good distance away from him. But he could not keep her from his dreams, and in them her face swam before his tear-filled eyes as he told her _no, they mustn't, it was too complicated,_ and then her face blurred and disappeared. He cried out her name, and Cilyawen's, but there was no answer, only the dead and dark solitude that echoed back his desperate cries until they rang in his ears and shook in his very bones.

He opened his eyes with a start, staring up at the trees above him, and noticed that there was a thin film of sweat on his face, and that he was breathing very fast. Carefully Mothlin wiped his face with the cleanest part of his tunic, and then he lay flat on his back until his breathing was under control.

It was daybreak by that time, and the sun was gently touching the leaves and ground with gold. _We should get moving,_ he thought, and for the first time since the almost-incident the day before, Mothlin looked at Elenanar.

She was sleeping, one arm tossed negligently above her head. Her hair was filled with leaves, and her chest rose and fell with her steady breaths. Mothlin reached out to pull a leaf from her hair, but checked his hand midway. He lay on his side instead, looking at her, while the sun climbed inexorably higher in the sky. Soon it would fall on Elenanar's face, and she would wake up, and the rest of the journey would be unspeakably tense with the weight of the words and actions of yesterday. Mothlin was fairly sure he could stand it, and certain that she could, but the prospect was not a pleasant one.

And the thought of leading her into danger made him hate what he saw, in the early morning light, as cowardice. He could picture her perfectly, striding boldly through the ruins of Dol Guldur, her hair and eyes flaming, and he could see waiting for her, just around a corner, an Orc, and more importantly that Orc's blade, to slice into her and color her the red of life's blood. At the thought, Mothlin fell down on his back and closed his eyes tightly.

He couldn't. He couldn't live with himself if she died on a quest that she had no stake in. Cilyawen was not her mother, and much as he loved Cilyawen, he could not ask Elenanar to die for her. It was wrong, and it was not fair. Elenanar had a life far beyond him, far beyond their friendship. If he left, if he disappeared and went on his way, she could go back to it and live.

She had shown him the map yesterday, he remembered, and pointed out their location. He dug it out of Tari's saddlebag and examined it. The stream they were close to was easy enough to find - he remembered her finger pointing at it. And she had said they were a day's ride from Dol Guldur.

If he was going to leave her alone in the middle of Mirkwood, as unskilled with weapons as she was, he was going to leave Tari as well. The prospect of carrying all his supplies on his back didn't appeal, but neither did abandoning Elenanar completely. Mothlin scanned the map closely and made a rough guess what direction he should head in to get to Dol Guldur. Hoping he was right, he stuffed the map back and heaved the heavy saddlebag over his shoulder.

"Mothlin?" she asked behind him, her voice shaky. "Where are you going?"

He spun around, his stomach clenching. _It would have been so easy to leave her without saying anything,_ he thought, _and it will be so hard to look her in the eyes and explain everything._ Mothlin drew a breath. "Go back to sleep," he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

"Where are you going?" Elenanar insisted, sitting up. Her eyes took in the saddlebag over his shoulder. She registered his furtive behavior, and her eyes widened. "Don't leave," she said.

Mothlin braced himself. "Elenanar, there's no sense in asking you to die for my mother." This was even harder than he had thought. "You - you could go back, you could not take the chance of dying...I - it's not fair to you, Elenanar - it's my quest..." He trailed off. The arguments that had such eloquence in his head turned to air and blew away when he spoke them aloud to her.

She sat in utter silence, her face growing whiter with every word he spoke. Finally, once he stopped, she whispered, "Maybe it would be better if _I_ left." She didn't look him in the eyes either. "I thought about it, yesterday. I thought - maybe you'd rather not have me with you, that you'd prefer to do this yourself. I thought you were angry with me for intruding on your task, and then I remembered that you didn't want me to come with you from the very beginning. So - I think it would make more sense if I left. You could do this on your own, without me to -" She faltered, then swallowed and went on. "Without me to make you angry, to worry you, to - to distract you from what you have to do."

Elenanar stood up. "If I went with you, you would have to worry about me as well as yourself and your mother. If I can't protect myself, I probably shouldn't be going with you at all. I wouldn't want you killed on my behalf." She blinked fiercely, and Mothlin stared at her in surprise - was she crying? "It's not fair for you, since you - since you didn't want me to come in the first place."

Mothlin saw a faint tear roll down her face. She brushed it away angrily, but he had already dropped the saddlebag and was halfway to her. He caught her hands and said, "No, that's not it at all! It's not that I don't want you along -" He couldn't think of what to say to her to convince her she was wrong. His mind was racing, but blank, and he needed to say something before she got too committed to the idea.

Elenanar pulled her hands free and stepped back from him. Her eyes were now red with crying, and her face was wet, but she stared at him angrily. "Don't give me half, Mothlin!" she cried. "I'm not someone who can be happy with halves!"

He stared at her, and she at him, and both knew exactly what she meant.

Then she swallowed, and wiped her face, and stepped carefully around him. "I'd better take these back," she said quietly, but the anger from her outburst was still in her voice. She scooped up her weapons, which lay scattered around the clearing, and methodically counted the arrows in her quiver.

"Elenanar -" Mothlin's throat closed up. He couldn't think clearly. There was only one thing pounding resolutely in his mind - _She shouldn't go. She shouldn't go like this._

She turned around, bow in hand. "Yes?" she asked.

"Please," he said, very quietly. "Please don't go."

She sighed heavily and set her bow and quiver down. "Mothlin, _think_! How can we go into Dol Guldur like this? How can we trust each other with our lives like this? It's wrong, and it's a guarantee that we'll both die. And I'm fairly sure I can't persuade you to not go there. And if you died because of me, I don't know if I would ever forgive myself." Elenanar smiled sadly. "And what I said before was true. I can't be happy with whatever tidbits of affection you give me. Not anymore, and I wish to the Valar that we could still just be friends, but we both know that can't be after - what happened yesterday. Mothlin, please. Let me go. I need to. Neither of us was made for halves, and we'll break if we try. Please." He opened his mouth to speak, but she forestalled him. "I've made my decision, Mothlin," she warned, "and I can't change it. Please don't make it worse for both of us by trying to convince me to."

She meant it absolutely. Mothlin could see it in her eyes, in the quivering but determined set of her jaw. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the enormous lump in his chest, and the prickling in his eyes that meant he might cry. "Take Tari, then," he said, hating himself for the way his voice shook. "If you insist on going, take her with you."

Evidently Elenanar could tell that Mothlin was as determined on that as she was on leaving. She nodded and picked up her weapons again, slinging them on her back. Tari came to Mothlin's whistle, and he handed her reins to Elenanar. She mounted up.

"Elenanar!" Mothlin said suddenly. She looked down at him, biting her lip to stem her own threatening tears. "I _did_ want you to come that first day," he told her. "I didn't want you leaving and thinking that I wanted to do it on my own."

She looked down at him, and she could almost hear her heart break. "Go!" she commanded Tari, speaking louder than she had wanted to and kicking her heels into the horse's flanks. Startled, Tari set off at a trot, looking once back at Mothlin. He waved her on, and Tari didn't turn around again.

It was then, only then, when they were out of sight, that Mothlin kicked at a clump of leaves and leaned against a tree to stifle his weeping.

Gradually he came back to his senses and wiped his face. His heart might be raw and bleeding, but he had a task to do, and Sauron cared nothing for the state of his captive's rescuer. He had wasted yesterday in rest, and today would be long and hard and on foot.

Mothlin shouldered the saddlebag and began to plod in the direction he hoped Dol Guldur was in, but when he stared down into the forest, something deep within him said urgently, _This is not the right way._

_What?_ he asked it. It seemed utterly independent of him, and for an instant he wondered where it had come from. _Which is the right way, then?_

_Follow me,_ it said, sounding relieved. _I'll get you there. Trust me._

Mothlin obeyed.


	12. Trickery and Disobedience

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Twelve**

The door of her cell clanked open. Cilyawen looked up wearily, her eyesight clouded with exhaustion, at the Orc who stood over her. "What now?" she asked, her voice hoarse from too many screaming nightmares.

The Orc laughed. It was an unpleasant sound no matter how many times she heard it. "Get up, Elf-brat," he jeered. "_He_ wants to see you. Now."

Slowly, with every muscle in her body screaming, Cilyawen levered herself to her feet. "He will win nothing from me," she said with a bravery she didn't feel. The Orc grabbed her arm, hauling her out of the cell. He pushed her down the hall before him, and only Sauron's command that she be fed and kept healthy prevented him from licking her heels with the whip he carried. For her part, Cilyawen recalled all too well Shaglush's skill with his whip, and stayed well ahead of the Orc.

_I lied,_ she thought miserably. Walking swiftly down the halls made her head ache - she tried to massage away the pain. _He's won. I tried, for as long as I could, but he's too strong, and my memories are too clear. I will give in this time, and we will all be lost. Forgive me...I have failed._

She did not even have the strength to weep at the thought.

_Where now?_ Mothlin asked his disembodied guide. _Tell me where to go!_

He stood at a fork in the path. One way was barred by interlaced hedges, and the other way was clear but narrow and dark. _Tell me!_ he demanded.

The voice did not hesitate. _Through the hedges,_ it ordered. Obediently Mothlin drew his sword and started hacking his way through the plants. They were stubborn, and his sword was too long for such close work. _Just shove your way through!_ cried the voice. _It will take less time than this mindless chopping!_

Mothlin sheathed his sword and grasped a branch in each hand, shoving them out of the way to make a path for his passage. _And then where?_ Mothlin asked.

_I will tell you,_ breathed the voice. _Onward, and swiftly!_

Elenanar urged Tari blindly on, choking on her own tears. _It's a good thing the horse can see where we're going,_ she thought miserably. _Otherwise I'd just run us into a low tree branch, or something like it._ But however obscured her vision was, her mind's eye was as clear as glass. Mothlin's face swam before it in every expression she had known it - open in laughter, twisted in pain, clouded with doubt, relaxed, cheerful, worried - and so close to her own face that it made the tears come faster.

"Mothlin -" she whispered, so softly that even she couldn't hear it. _Let it go, then,_ she thought. _Let it go..._

But Tari slowed under her, and whickered at the mention of Mothlin's name.

Elenanar stared at the horse and pulled her to a stop. "Don't," she cautioned, her voice thick with weeping. "Don't lecture me. It was the right thing to do, wasn't it?" _But how could it have been the right thing if it leaves me feeling like half of myself?_ She leaped off Tari's back and threw her head up to the small glimpse of sky that the closely-grown trees allowed her. "Was it the right thing to do?" she cried. "Was it?" The silence of the forest was implacable. The tears welled again in her eyes.

_"Tell me!"_ she screamed. "Somebody tell me!"

Then it was very quiet in the forest.

Elenanar gasped once, a choked sob of a gasp, and whirled around to grab Tari's mane and cry into it. The mare butted her face gently. "Mothlin," Elenanar whispered, "Mothlin, Mothlin, forgive me." _How can you imagine I would do it? How could you even think of going in there without someone to protect you?_

_How could I ever dream of leaving you to face that by yourself?_

Elenanar raised her face and wiped it with the back of her hand. Tari looked back at her, her deep brown eyes quiet and trusting. "Come on, girl," she whispered softly, and mounted up. "Let's go save him."

She wheeled the horse around and headed for Dol Guldur as fast as Tari could run.

_Stop!_ ordered the voice. Mothlin grabbed at a branch to halt his progress and winced as it rubbed roughly against the cuts in his palm he'd gotten from fighting his way through the tangled hedges.

_Where?_ was all he asked, breathing deeply. His chest felt tight and painful from a shortage of breath.

_Wait._ The voice seemed to settle in his head. It sounded satisfied now, and content, as if a mission had been fulfilled.

Mothlin never thought to ask it what its mission was, or where it had come from. He hunkered down to rest his legs instead. He also never thought to wonder about the utter emptiness of his mind.

Then the voice stirred to urgent life within him. _Stand!_ it commanded. _Get on your feet, now!_ Mothlin's aching muscles protested the order, but the voice snarled, _Get __**up**_ and Mothlin obeyed, unfolding his screaming legs.

From somewhere behind him he heard a voice cry in a strange, guttural tongue. Mothlin whirled around, and his heart stopped on seeing two Orcs racing at him. _What have you done to me?_ he demanded of the voice, but it was silent.

He tried to run, to make his stiff muscles move, but they too betrayed him, and he collapsed back on the ground. _No use going for the sword,_ he thought. _They'll only kill me faster if I do._ He heard their crashing footsteps slam into the earth. _Cilyawen...I tried..._ he thought. _Elenanar..._

In her weakened state, Sauron's presence hit her like a blow to the jaw. Cilyawen staggered into the room. **"Why is she so weak?"** Sauron demanded angrily. She felt his presence hover over her, and she shuddered uncontrollably at the coldness that followed in his wake. She did not hear the Orc's reply, only his anguished scream as Sauron punished him.

Sauron moved away from her a little, and her shivering stopped. Sweat lay thick on her forehead. "What do you want from me, Sauron?" she asked, her voice a mere croak now.

**"So, the Elfling slave wants to bargain now, eh?"** he mocked. **"Snaga, I offer terms to no one I have already defeated."** She felt his unreal hand slide gently down her face, and she rolled her head away, too weak to do anything else, even deny the name he gave her. **"You are mine, Snaga, and you know it. Mine, and you will do anything in your power that I command you."**

"No," she rasped, and knew it for a lie. But it was unthinkable to agree - after so long a fight, to give in to him. She had to hold it off as long as she could, had to refuse as many times so that her inevitable betrayal wouldn't seem quite as bad.

**"Oh, but I think I have something that will make you dance to my command,"** Sauron remarked maliciously. **"Something you value - something that will put life into that weary body of yours."**

She would have had to be deaf to have not noticed how eagerly his voice caressed the word "body." _Is that your game, then?_ Cilyawen thought, palely amused. _Is that why you hate everything? It was your own fault, you know, that you lost the first body you had. Do you find it hard, now, to live with the consequences of your actions?_

**"I can read your thoughts, Snaga,"** he snarled, **"and I do not like them."**

"Oh - really?" she managed, forcing herself up to her knees and pushing back until she was propped against the chamber wall. "I'm astonished."

She knew he would not strike her - he needed her as strong as she could be. Still she could not help but flinch and cover her face as she felt his blow rush at her like waves to the shore, and could not have stifled the small cry that escaped her when he checked the blow any more than she could have climbed on the stars to the moon. Cilyawen heard him laugh, and she covered her ears and shrank against the wall. _Make him stop,_ she pleaded to anyone who might be listening, _I'll do anything, but make him stop laughing!_

**"Oh, you will,"** he said. **"You will do a great many things before I stop laughing."** He moved to the door and gave some orders in a low voice she could not hear before he drifted back to the center of the room. Cilyawen could feel his eyes on her, and she ducked her head in a futile effort to shield herself once more from him.

The door opened, and she raised her head and saw the last person she would have expected to see standing before her. Bedraggled, his hands torn and his clothes in shreds and his eyes darker and more haunted than she would have believed possible in anyone but herself, but still Mothlin. She gave a cry and came laboriously to her feet, the sight of him lending her weary limbs strength, and he met her halfway and clung to her as he had the night she found him and roused him from his nightmares. "Naneth," she heard him murmur, and tears sprang to her eyes at the word.

Then Sauron laughed, and all her agony returned. **"How touching,"** he said, chuckling. **"Snaga, meet my thrall."**

It was then that Cilyawen knew the darkness of perfect despair.


	13. The Thrall Acts

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Mothlin stared agape at Sauron. He shook his head, as if that could clear from his mind the words that Sauron had spoken. _It can't be true, it can't be true..._ "What did you say?" he demanded, holding a shaking Cilyawen against him.

**"Why bother repeating myself?"** asked Sauron. **"You know very well what I said. You just need to hear it again to convince yourself that it's true."** The Enemy chuckled. The sound sent chills down Mothlin's spine. **"I will only say this once. It's true."**

"But -" stammered Mothlin. "But that can't be! You didn't make me come here! I left Rivendell by my own choice, don't you dare say that was you!"

**"Oh, that **_**was**_** you," Sauron assured him. "That is just the kind of foolhardy bravery I'd expect from anyone raised by Snaga. But when you opened the door to my Orcs, it was because of me."**

Mothlin felt as though he'd been gutted. "But how did you - how could you -"

**"It was almost sickeningly easy,"** Sauron said. **"Recall, if you will, a night in a peaceful settlement of Elves near Rivendell. I do believe the moon was shining very brightly. And then the settlement was not so peaceful, was it?"**

"No," Mothlin choked out. "No, it wasn't. Because that was when the Orcs came."

Sauron shifted, drifting closer to Mothlin. **"And you remember the pain, don't you? When they caught you, after they killed your precious parents, and they tied you and gouged you until you were leaking blood from every pore in your body..."**

"Stop it!" Mothlin lashed out vainly, his hand empty and open, feeling that he'd trade anything to be able to strike Sauron across the face and knock out a few of the Dark Lord's teeth. He gritted his own teeth in frustration as his hand flailed wildly, running through mere air. Cilyawen in his arms was stiff with fear and pain and exhaustion.

**"When at last you dropped unconscious,"** Sauron continued, keeping fluidly away from Mothlin's waving hand, **"that was when they bound you to me. The pain made your mind easy to influence, and I made you mine. I could hardly believe my luck when it was Snaga and her silly little husband found you."** At the slight to Elrohir, Cilyawen's fingers tightened on the folds of Mothlin's tunic that they gripped, but she had no strength for any other defiance. **"I did nothing with the tie in your mind for all the time you were in Rivendell, until I needed Snaga again. Then I touched you, and you performed admirably, little thrall."** Sauron sounded pleased, even surprised. Mothlin was disgusted.

"Don't call me that!" he snarled.

**"Why not?"** asked Sauron companionably. **"What else are you?"**

Mothlin had no answer to that.

**"As I was saying,"** Sauron went on, **"I only touched you again to bring you here. Most of your journey was entirely your own."** Again that chuckle that made Mothlin want to scream in futile fury. **"You should learn not to trust voices in your head so blindly, thrall."**

"How was I to know?" Mothlin cried. "You made it so that I couldn't have realized!"

**"How perceptive of you."**

Mothlin squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging moisture in them. He clung to Cilyawen as she clung to him and whispered, his voice cracking with tears and rage, "I hate you."

Sauron laughed, **"I am sure you do. You two are the kind of people who would. But hate me or not, you will obey my commands, and you will be mine. You **_**are**_** mine, in fact, and I will prove it to you now. Hit yourself."**

"What -" Mothlin asked, before he felt the pressure in his mind. A greater thought than his was weighing him down, demanding, insisting, ordering that he strike himself. He said _No,_ but he saw his own hand come up, and he felt the blow across his face, and heard it ring in his ears, and he trembled, terrified.

The tone of Sauron's voice made Mothlin imagine him as a satisfied cat who just finished a bowl of cream - or a fat mouse. **"You see?"** was all he said, two simple words.

It was enough.

Suddenly Mothlin heard something very odd, something entirely out of place. Sounds reached his ears, sounds from the corridor outside the chamber - the sounds of battle, and of Orcs grunting and dying, and of low snarls and hisses in a voice he knew very well.

And then the Orc guards outside the door fell inside, both stabbed through the heart, and standing framed by the doorway, her red hair in a flaming, tousled halo about her flushed face, was Elenanar.

Mothlin cried out her name before he could stop himself. She looked at him - but he saw from the look in her eyes that she had not made the mistake of thinking that he and Cilyawen were alone. She too could feel the presence of Sauron, and she trembled at it. The sword and dagger in her hands trembled as well, but she advanced nonetheless, her jaw set.

Then Mothlin felt the crushing pressure of Sauron's mind on his. "No," he gritted, his fingers digging into Cilyawen's frail shoulders, desperate to hold on to himself.

**"Yes,"** said Sauron, cooing softly, gentle.

_"No,"_ hissed Mothlin, closing his eyes. Elenanar had reached him - he felt her hand on his shoulder - and then it was gone. He reared his head up to see her slammed against the dirt wall, and panic flared in his mind, and Sauron gripped hold of it in triumph and ordered, **"Take your dagger and kill her"** -

Elenanar struggled to her feet. Her head reeled, and every bone in her body was screaming from the pain of the impact. She rubbed fiercely at her eyes to clear them, dropping her dagger into the dirt.

When her eyes were clear, she stood frozen in disbelief.

Mothlin had shoved the rail-thin Elf woman (who had to be the Lady Cilyawen) away from him. She stumbled and fell to the earthen floor. Elenanar began to move toward her, and stopped as Mothlin reached for his twin knives. There was something in his eyes that frightened her, but she couldn't place it for a moment. And then she realized that what frightened her was the simple absence of _Mothlin_ in them. There was someone else inside him now, and she heard Sauron say, **"Take your dagger and kill her,"** and she knew instantly.

"Mothlin, don't!" she screamed at him.

He paused, but Sauron hissed, **"Kill her, thrall!"** and he drew the right-side dagger.

Elenanar bent and scooped up her own dagger, throwing it vainly at the place where she'd heard Sauron. It passed through thin air and thudded dully into the dirt, and she looked back at the thrall. He moved with unstoppable speed as she watched in horror, leaping on the Lady Cilyawen and standing on her wrists to pin her to the floor. Cilyawen twisted to free her hands, and kicked out with her free legs, but the thrall ground the heel of his boot mercilessly into the insides of her wrists, and she sagged like a boned fish into the floor. "Stop!" Elenanar heard herself yell.

She shoved off the wall and flew toward the thrall, and as she flew he drew back his dagger and buried it to the hilt in Cilyawen's chest.

Cilyawen's scream, torn from a raw and ragged throat, cut the air like a sword slicing through flesh. The thrall withdrew the blade, stained to the hilt, and bright red blood gushed from the wound, soaking the front of Cilyawen's gown and splashing gruesomely onto the hands and face of the thrall. He smiled, a smile with no mirth in it, and Cilyawen's scream cut off abruptly as she ran out of voice to scream with.

Only then did Elenanar reach his side.

She forced herself not to look at the blood fountaining from Cilyawen like some gory waterfall. Instead she snatched at the thrall's dagger and yelled in his ear, "Stop this, stop it, come back to yourself!" The thrall yanked on it and stumbled - Elenanar bore him to the floor, wrestling him for the blade. She finally managed to tear it out of his hand and threw it behind her. "Mothlin!" she cried, grabbing his wrists. "Look at me! Come back, Mothlin!"

The thrall paused for a moment, then backhanded her. The blow rang in her ears, but she twisted her neck back around and stared for a breathless, anguished instant into his eyes. _If he can come back - if he can be Mothlin again - if he can let this go -_

Heedless of the bloody mess he was, heedless of the danger, Elenanar grabbed his face, pulled him close, and kissed him hard.

He grabbed her by the hair, his fingers brutal, yanking in it to pull her face away. She locked her fingers behind his neck and held on stubbornly - and then his grip on her hair loosened, and his arms came around her and crushed her against him, and he kissed her back. And when she broke off the kiss and looked, giddy with hope, at him, she knew he was back. "Elenanar -" he started to say, but then a sound behind made them both whip their heads around and scramble to their feet.

Mothlin made a strangled sound. Cilyawen was still gushing blood, but her skin was growing paler and bluer with every moment, and Sauron was stronger than ever, a vivid, pulsing presence alive with some new horror. As they watched, something coagulated next to Cilyawen, a small knot of matter. And slowly, agonizingly slowly, a pair of eyes, red as flame, appeared out of the knot.

"He's using her -" Elenanar choked beside him. She could not finish the thought.

Mothlin was lost again, but not to Sauron this time. Something else was overwhelming him, something livid and red, pure emotion with no reason or reality to it. _Hatred._ He had never had a more welcome feeling in his life.

He flew to where his dagger lay behind Elenanar and scooped it up from the floor, and then launched himself at the eyes and plunged the dagger, still wet with Cilyawen's blood, into one of the red eyes.

Sauron's scream ripped through his ears, and he heard Elenanar cry out and cover her ears, but Mothlin banished the sound of it. His world had shrunk to the dagger in his hand and the ruin of the Eye and the warm welcome blood pouring over his arms as he stabbed the Eye again. More times than he could count that blade descended into the bloody wreck, and Mothlin snarled and laughed and choked on the blood that splattered into his face, and stabbed and stabbed again, as Sauron's cry of pain and fury rang in his ears and was not heard.

_"Mothlin!"_ screamed Elenanar. She was tugging at his arm, he realized. "Mothlin, we have to get Cilyawen out of here!"

_Cilyawen,_ he thought. _He could keep using her...we have to get her out..._ He tore himself away from the screaming mass of blood that was Sauron and stuck the bloody dagger back into its sheath. His heart twisted inside him as he saw how pale Cilyawen was, her blood staining her like some sort of macabre paint, and he shuddered as he touched her cold flesh. But he lifted her with the utmost care into his arms. "Take your sword and lead," he told Elenanar, and she retrieved her sword and dagger.

They encountered no Orcs on the way out of Dol Guldur.


	14. After Escape

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Neither Mothlin nor Elenanar said a word as they left Dol Guldur. Elenanar silently led them to where she'd tied Tari up. Mothlin stood still for a moment, then turned to her and broke the silence. "I can't ride," he said. His voice sounded odd in the otherwise still air.

"Why?" Elenanar asked. "We have to get out of here fast."

"Cilyawen," Mothlin said simply. "We can't jostle her around between us."

"Well, you can't carry her all the way back to Rivendell!" Elenanar pointed out.

Mothlin looked at Tari, then at Cilyawen, then at Elenanar. "We'll have to strap her on Tari, then, and keep ourselves to a walk."

Elenanar thought of the Orc guards at Dol Guldur and was about to mention their existence to Mothlin, but then she looked at Cilyawen and decided to keep silent. Instead she searched through the packs attached to Tari for some long leather strips. Mothlin ended up slicing a few inches off his bedraggled tunic as well, but eventually they had enough bindings to tie Cilyawen securely onto the horse.

"Elenanar," Mothlin said, lowering his foster-mother to the ground gently, "pass me my pack. Please." She did, and Mothlin rummaged through it until he found a long thin needle and a piece of string. He turned to Elenanar. "Can you sew?" he asked.

"Of course."

Mothlin handed her the needle and thread. "That - wound - needs to be closed," he said with an effort, swallowing hard, "and I can't sew."

Elenanar knelt down and took the thread and needle from him. "I can't sew it shut until it's clean," she said. "Otherwise the dirt inside it will fester and infect her."

"I'll heat some water, then." Mothlin emptied his pack unceremoniously. "I'll be back," he promised, and slipped quietly off into the forest.

He found a stream close by and knelt to scoop up water from it in his empty pack. The water was clod and clear, far better than he'd have expected so close to Dol Guldur. _Dol Guldur..._ Thinking of the Enemy's ruined stronghold brought back the image of Cilyawen's torn crimson flesh, and Mothlin closed his eyes tightly, swallowing down the lump that rose in his throat.

_I did that to her. Me. My own hands, my own blade - sweet Valar, I did it with the dagger she gave me!_ Mothlin hauled the pack out of the stream and set it on the grass, freeing his hands to cover his face. They were wet, and drops of water trickled down his cheeks like tears - but his eyes were dry and his heart was numb. _What kind of monster am I, that I couldn't stop myself?_

_All my fine plans to get there and save her,_ he thought bitterly. _Some rescue. It took Elenanar to save both of us - oh, Valar,_ Elenanar_! I sent her away, I thought I could keep her out of danger - I thought I could save Cilyawen on my own...I didn't think I needed any help... What a benighted fool I am._ He clenched his hands into fists and slammed them both into the unresisting stream. The water lashed up out of its bed and splashed him in the face. Tracks of water, stained red with Cilyawen's and Sauron's blood, ran down his face again. _And this is the only way I can weep,_ he thought dully, and got up from the bank with the filled pack in his hands.

He stoked up a fire and strung the pack over it on a few propped-up sticks to heat it. Elenanar kept Cilyawen warm, holding the bloody wound shut with her hands and packing what blankets they had around her body. Mothlin watched the water in silence. "It's boiling," he reported at last.

"Good," was all Elenanar said.

Mothlin poured some of it over Elenanar's bloodstained hands to clean them before he handed over the rest of the hot water. She cut a strip of cloth from the part of her skirt that was not worn ragged and soaked it in the water. Then she wiped the wound clean. Cilyawen jerked and moaned as the boiling water touched her inner flesh, and Mothlin darted to her head. He took her face between his hands and soothed her, brushing her hair off her forehead, wiping the sweat from her face, singing lullabies softly under his breath. Slowly she calmed, and Elenanar was able to clean the wound thoroughly.

"Hold her still," she whispered at last, laying aside the cloth and picking up the threaded needle. Mothlin kept making soothing sounds as Elenanar pulled the torn edges of skin together, took a deep breath, and pushed the sharp needle through.

Cilyawen cried out hoarsely, a horrible no-voice sound that almost made Elenanar drop the needle. Mothlin's hands tightened on Cilyawen's face, but he kept singing, his voice low. He caught her hands in one of his and held them still. But he could not hold all of her, and it was horrible to see her legs jerk every time Elenanar inserted the needle.

At last it was done, and Mothlin released her. She had fainted at some point, which did not surprise him at all - with all the blood she'd lost, he would have expected her to pass out long before. Elenanar sat back, her face deathly pale and beaded with sweat, the red-stained needle in her hand. She rinsed it in the hot water, dried it on her dress, and put it away. Mothlin saw her hands shake as she stowed it, balled up the remaining thread, and suddenly hurled it far from her. "Elenanar," he said softly, just to say her name.

She looked up, startled, and flushed. She looked positively unhealthy now, with her cheeks bright red and the rest of her face white with strain and fear. Her eyes were dark and haunted, and it was not only her hands that trembled. Mothlin thought that as long as he lived, she would rarely seem more beautiful to him than at that moment, stretched almost to the limit with her bravery and her fear for him.

She read that in his eyes and looked away. "I thought," she whispered hoarsely, "that that wasn't going to happen."

Mothlin got to his feet, walked over to her, and helped her to stand beside him. "So did I," he said. "As the Valar witness it, Elenanar, I thought that I could will it not to happen, and that it wouldn't. And I was so unbelievably wrong that I can't begin to tell you how stupid it makes me feel." He did not let go of her hands, although she tried half-heartedly to free them. "I wouldn't have gotten out of Dol Guldur without you, and nor would Cilyawen, and don't think I don't know it. I probably wouldn't have even made it to Dol Guldur without you, and I don't even want to imagine living without you." She looked down, lips trembling, and he took her face between his hands and lifted it back up to look into his. "I made the worst mistake of my life when I sent you away," he said, "and I never want to make that mistake again, because..." It was blissfully, wonderfully easy to say. "...because I love you, Elenanar."

He felt the shiver run through her entire body. She covered his hands with hers. Her eyes were less haunted now, and Mothlin felt hope rising in him. "I have to be sure," Elenanar said, very quietly and deliberately. "Are you sure of it, Mothlin? You have to be sure - I have to be sure, or it'll fall apart in time..."

Mothlin smiled gently. "I swear to you, I've never been so sure of anything in my entire life."

Then Elenanar smiled, a shaky, frightened smile, but a smile that spoke of relief, and joy, and love that mirrored the singing of his own beating heart. Mothlin had not imagined that such love could exist.

Very softly, very carefully, he leaned down and kissed Elenanar, and felt her arms come hesitantly around his neck, and there was nothing more to be said that could not be expressed in that kiss.


	15. In Dreams

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Fifteen**

Toting Cilyawen through Mirkwood was not high on Mothlin's list of favorite things to do. They rested by the stream for as long as they dared, which was not very long, but it was by no means all the rest Cilyawen needed to heal. Their progress was agonizingly slow, but one look at Cilyawen, feverish and slumped limply over Tari's back killed any complaints from either Mothlin or Elenanar. Every night when they stopped, Mothlin would boil water and wipe the wound clean, and Elenanar would check her neat stitches that closed the gap in Cilyawen's flesh.

"She's not healing, is she?" Mothlin finally asked one night, a week after they'd escaped from Dol Guldur.

Elenanar sat back wearily and dropped her face into her hands. "No," she admitted from between her fingers.

Mothlin scooted over to her side and put his arms around her. Elenanar slowly relaxed against him as much as she was able to, but her body was still impossibly tense. Mothlin supposed his must be as taut with nerves as hers, and he kissed her forehead gently. She uttered a long, shuddering breath, still staring at Cilyawen. "All we need to do," said Mothlin quietly, "is get her to Lórien or Rivendell, somewhere she can be tended properly."

"But look at her!" Elenanar said frantically. "She's sick, she's hurt, and she's not going to make it even to Uncle Thranduil's palace!" She had gone tense again - Mothlin held her tightly and soothed her, wishing he could have a nervous breakdown of his own. Elenanar had put into words what they'd both realized at the very start of the journey back.

"We have to hope," he said heavily, "for a miracle."

She looked up at him, her eyes hopeless and dry. "I don't think miracles exist anymore, Mothlin," she said dully.

"Don't say that!" he cried, and took her by the shoulders. "We never know, do we? It's possible - barely, but it might happen."

The look in her eyes was one devoid of hope, and Mothlin felt moisture prick the corners

of his own eyes. "Mothlin, you'll kill yourself with hoping," Elenanar whispered.

"I have to hope, don't I?" he asked, and she fell silent and put her arms around him.

Cilyawen was tossing and turning, and her nightmares took shape before her closed eyes.

_She stood on a plain, utterly bare and uninhabited, with windswept grass that blew the stench of death into her nostrils. Cilyawen backed away from the smell, covering her face with a hand. She had to get out of this place, she had to leave it, there was no choice._

_Someone was coming for her, weren't they? She knew she had not been left here on purpose, or abandoned. No, she had never been abandoned in all her life. Everyone had wanted her, and that was the root of all her problems. So someone was surely coming, and all she had to do was wait until they came, provided they were a good someone._

_A name swam into her mind, and she seized at it with a surge of love._ Elrohir! _Elrohir was the one who would come for her, wasn't he? How she wanted to see him again, to take him in her arms and pretend that none of this had ever happened... But maybe he wasn't the one coming. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe Elrohir had to send someone in his place to get her - but he wouldn't leave her here, she knew that. All she had to do was wait..._

I am so tired of waiting, _she thought,_ so tired of letting my life happen to me.

_And then she heard hoof beats behind her, and she turned with a smile and Elrohir's name upon her lips, and cried out to see a man, clad in black armor with a twisted face and one burning, flaming red eye dismounting and coming toward her. Cilyawen ran away from him, but that took her toward the smell of death, and she reeled as her senses were overwhelmed by the ominous reek -_

_She felt the red-eyed man's hand upon her arm, and she screamed and shook him away and fell senseless to the plain while the fumes of death and dying washed over her._

"Cilyawen!" Elenanar cried in horror as the Elf started to tip over Tari's side. Elenanar grabbed for Cilyawen's body, but she slipped away - and then Mothlin was there on Tari's other side to catch his foster-mother and gently replace her. She tossed fitfully, and clutched at Mothlin's hand with her eyes open wide and unseeing. The look of terror in them chilled Mothlin to the bone, but he gripped her hands tightly and whispered, "Hush, Naneth, hush. We'll get you back safe. You're all right. Hush." He smoothed the sweaty tendrils of hair from Cilyawen's brow, and she calmed under his hand, closing her eyes and whimpering once before sinking back into her restless sleep.

When Elenanar lifted her eyes from Cilyawen's face to Mothlin's, she started in shock. Mothlin was pale and drawn suddenly, and his hands shook as he extracted them from Cilyawen's grip. "Mothlin, don't you dare," she whispered.

He looked up. "What?" he asked, not understanding.

She came over to him and caught his trembling face between her hands. "Mothlin, don't you dare overreach yourself," she said firmly. "You're the one who knows how to fight. If you get exhausted, that leaves Cilyawen and me without much protection. And you're the one she knows - do you think she'd calm down like that for me?"

"_You're_ the one who broke into Dol Guldur," Mothlin pointed out.

Elenanar snorted in a most unladylike fashion. "I was incredibly lucky. I just swung with my sword and managed to hit things for the first time in my life, that's all. It's fine for me when I have nothing else, but is that the protection you want for Cilyawen?"

"You were better protection there than I was," Mothlin said shortly.

"Oh, Mothlin, stop it! It's pointless to bring that up -"

"That _is_ the point," he answered, and moved away from her. "Let's keep going."

Elenanar wanted to cry at the look on his face. Instead she stepped back behind Tari, who had paused to crop a small patch of healthy-looking grass. "All right. But let me know when you get tired," she warned, and they moved forward again.

_She was standing on the plain again, and the red-eyed man was gripping her elbow just as before. "Let me go!" Cilyawen cried, and wrenched herself away from him._

_He laughed, and she knew who he was. __**"I will never let you go,"**__ said the voice of Sauron, and to prove the truth of his words he caught her arm again and held her fast. __**"You were born to be mine, and now you cannot help staying with me. We will stay here forever,"**__ he said with a hideous laugh._

"No!" _Cilyawen screamed, and drew back a hand to strike him across the face - if only she had her daggers with her! - but he caught the hand, and now she was a prisoner, unable to move. He smiled, and his one red eye glowed in expectation of revenge, and she shrieked in rage and fought with all her strength against him -_

This time Mothlin was expecting her fall, and he caught her before she slid very far. Cilyawen cried out softly and struggled against him. He grabbed her hands, trying not to jostle her, but she pulled back her hands and the raw edges of her wound tore open.

Instantly Elenanar was there, catching Cilyawen on the other side and helping Mothlin lowering her to the ground. "Needle, thread, hot water," she ordered tersely. Mothlin was already rummaging for the needle, tossing everything else helter-skelter out of the pack. Elenanar threaded the needle and got a fire started while Mothlin ran for the nearest stream, which wasn't very near.

This time Mothlin let Elenanar tend the fire under the pack, and he sat with Cilyawen's head in his lap, stroking her fever-warm forehead and cooling her cheeks with the backs of his hands. She moaned, staring up with unseeing eyes toward the canopy of trees. The look on her face, one of mingled anger and abject terror, chilled his soul.

"Almost ready," Elenanar said shortly from the fire. Mothlin pulled out his dagger and started to slice a piece of cloth from his sleeve to clean Cilyawen's wound with - and stopped. Cilyawen was tossing restlessly, rolling her head from side to side. Her fingers, trailing in the earth, tightened around a clod of soil and gripped it tightly. Mothlin tried to catch her hands and, failing that, her face, but she twisted free of him, threw back her head, and screamed a broken scream in a broken voice.

Mothlin's dagger slipped from his fingers, and he shivered uncontrollably. Cilyawen's scream cut off abruptly, and at that moment he felt something inside him grab and twist. He cried out as well in pain and confusion, and struck blindly at the air in front of him, hoping vaguely to hit away whatever was pulling him inside out. But it was deep within him, not outside, and he felt himself spiraling inwards, tumbling head over heels towards a barren wasteland where two figures struggled -

_He stood on the plain. Far away, he could see two shapes moving, twisting, tugging, pulling at each other, and he started toward them. He felt something touch his face, his far-off body, and he thought it strange that he knew he existed elsewhere._

_The figures were drawing closer - or was he getting closer to them? He didn't know, and he suspected it would give him a nosebleed to try and figure out. He quickened his pace, taking longer strides, and wished that the person who had his body would stop shaking it. It was very distracting._

_Now he was close enough that he could see the figures. One was an Elf-woman, tall and slender, with long pale-gold hair and arms that once were strong -_ Cilyawen! _came the flash of knowledge. The other was even taller, clad entirely in black armor with a pronged helmet. The gauntlets on his hands made his fingers into claws as he grabbed Cilyawen and would not let her go. As he sped up, Mothlin could see through the helmet one burning red eye, and knew who_ this _person was._

_And now he could hear what they said. "Let me go!" cried Cilyawen, aiming a fruitless kick at Sauron's knees._

_He laughed, and it was terrible to hear. __**"Never,"**__ he cooed, his eye blazing with malice. __**"Never, never, never. You will suffer as I do."**__ He twisted her wrist back, and she shrieked in pain and crumpled. He did not let go, but bent with her, gripping her wrists. She turned and spat in his eye, and he howled and released her for one brief instant._

_And then Mothlin pounded up, and Cilyawen sprang to her feet and ran to him. Her steps were slower and weaker than he remembered them from Rivendell, but it was glorious to see her eyes alight with life again. "Quick, Mothlin!" she said urgently. "Give me your daggers!"_

_He reached for them to hand them over - and then realized he didn't have them with him. One lay on the ground by their bodies in Mirkwood, and the other hadn't even been belted to his waist. "I don't have them," he gasped, and looked at her helplessly._

_Her face darkened, and she bit down hard on her lip. Sauron rose to his feet, bellowing in rage. "Cilyawen, why is he here?" Mothlin asked, panicked. "He's just an eye now - I ruined the other one! Why is he like this - why here - why now -"_

_"This place isn't real," Cilyawen answered, "any more than the places we go in dreams are real. Here he can be whatever he wants." Her eyes were grim as she turned them on Sauron, who was coming toward them like a madman. But for all his crazed look and too-swift pace, every move he made was coldly deliberate._

_"We're going to die, aren't we?" Mothlin asked._

_"Probably," Cilyawen said. Mothlin could taste the regret in her voice, and in his. "I'm sorry," she added, much more quietly._

_"Why should you apologize?" Mothlin demanded. "None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for me! I'm the one who should be apologizing!"_

_Sauron was almost upon them, but Cilyawen grabbed his hands and said, "Stop that! You are not to blame for any of this. Lay blame where blame is due, and even Sauron can hardly help it - it's his nature._ It is not your fault."

_And then she whirled, releasing him, and ducked Sauron as he barreled at her. He turned on a dime and came back at them, impossibly fast. Mothlin darted to one side and made to grab his sword, but one of the huge gauntlets came sailing at his face, and he ducked and lost his grip on the hilt. Cilyawen sidestepped another blow, but she was getting slower and weaker with every step. No wonder - her body was hardly in the best condition._

_Sauron stopped and turned, staring suddenly at Mothlin - and a vicious smile twisted his one-eyed face. "Come here, thrall," he said._

_And to his horror, Mothlin found that the thrall was not dead, for he felt himself take a step, and another, and another, towards Sauron. He struggled, he fought, but the Enemy was too strong, and soon he stood beside Sauron and fought to be able to grab the sword and stab him through his other eye - but he could not, and despised himself._

_But Sauron drew the sword himself and handed it to Mothlin. __**"Kill her,"**__ he ordered, nodding at Cilyawen._

_The thrall leaped to obey -_

_And Mothlin grabbed it between the fingers of his mind, dug his heels in, and said, "No."_

_Sauron's face darkened under the helmet. __**"Kill her, thrall,"**__ he said. __**"I command you, kill her! You cannot refuse me!"**_

_"Maybe your thrall can't," panted Mothlin, struggling with the effort to remain himself, "but I can."_

_**"You are my thrall!"**__ Sauron screamed._

"Not anymore!" _yelled Mothlin, his throat tearing with the force of the cry._

_And he astonished himself and crushed the thrall mercilessly, and threw himself, not at Cilyawen, but at Sauron. Footsteps pattering behind him told him that Cilyawen had seen this stroke of good luck and come to help. Mothlin thrust at Sauron with the sword, and the Enemy struck him away, his blow exaggerated by his anger. Mothlin fell on his back and remembered to hold the sword away from him so as not to spit himself on it. He tasted blood in his mouth - he wiped it away and got back up. Sauron's blow this time was more hysteric - he was frightened of Mothlin, of an Elf who could resist him, and he was weaponless, and Mothlin held his sword. Mothlin screamed a wordless cry and went at him for a third try -_

_And froze, staring._

_There were_ two _Cilyawens standing in front of him._

"This place isn't real, any more than the places we go in dreams are real. Here he can be whatever he wants." _He heard Cilyawen's warning in his mind, and he wanted to scream. They were identical, both gasping for breath in the same moment, both with the exact same rips in their clothes, both with the same wound, both with the same look of fear in their eyes._

Which one was Sauron?

_His concentration shattered into confusion, and the thrall broke loose. Mothlin screamed and clutched at it with invisible fingers, trying desperately to hold it in, but it was free and it was in control. He raised the sword and leveled it at one of the Cilyawens, and Mothlin struggled vainly as he moved in a rush at the Cilyawen, who retreated, horror and shock on her face, as the other one began to laugh._ No, _Mothlin thought,_ no, this is the real one, Sauron is the one laughing, no, stop, no, no, NO!

_The sword slid into her flesh like a stone sinking seamlessly into a quiet pool._

_Mothlin screamed, and Cilyawen screamed and sank to the ground. The thrall, exulting in triumph, lost its control, and Mothlin grabbed it back - only to find that he was firmly holding down nothing. It was gone. The thrall did not exist anymore. And Cilyawen's blood was pouring out onto the plain, red, gushing, so, so dear to him. He could not cry - no tears came - but he shrieked in anguish and whirled on Sauron._

_The other Cilyawen stood in front of him, laughing hysterically and staring at the body on the ground. Then she turned to Mothlin and cried out, "You did it! You did it!"_

_Mothlin could not speak. He darted forward, sword outstretched, and the Cilyawen ducked it and cried, "Look at the body, Mothlin!_ Look _at it!"_

_He looked, and his knees gave way and he sank into the earth. Sauron lay before him, armored and motionless, already stiff, his red eye closed. There was no blood._

_He looked up at Cilyawen. She came to him and took the sword from his nerveless fingers. "What happened?" he managed._

_"I think," she said, sounding - astonishing as it was - amused, "that the thrall was very confused. It had been given a command - to kill me - and it wanted to go to its master. I think it did the best it could, under the circumstances."_

_And then Mothlin could laugh too, and he did, flinging his arms around Cilyawen's knees and laughing and shaking with relief. "And I almost killed you," he whispered._

_She smiled and raised him to his feet. "Lucky for both of us the thrall was still alive," she said. And Mothlin felt himself being turned right-side-out again, and heading back to his body, and he caught Cilyawen's hand as he left -_

Elenanar's gasp caught in her throat and turned into a sob as Mothlin relaxed in her arms and started to breathe again. He coughed and looked around, his eyes wide with wonder. "Mothlin -" Elenanar choked, staring at him with fright and incredulity in her eyes. He started to laugh, very quietly, and then put his arms around her and kissed her soundly. Tears started to run down her face - he brushed them away with a fingertip and held her close.

At their feet, Cilyawen started, and began to breathe again as well. Mothlin looked down at her and smiled, and then back at Elenanar, a look of profound relief on his face.

"She's back," he said.


	16. Mirkwood

**Scion of Snaga**

**Chapter Sixteen**

From then on, it was easy.

It helped that Cilyawen was awake and lucid. "Are you going to be all right?" Mothlin asked as they lifted her onto Tari's back.

"I have to be, don't I?" she asked, artfully turning a grimace into a grin. "Don't worry. I'll last." And then, as Mothlin turned away to start leading Tari forward, she added, "Mothlin, this is highly uncomfortable."

He looked at her, lying on her back on a horse to keep the wound from jostling, and burst out laughing. "It's good to have you back," he said.

"It's good to be back," she answered. "Now lead on."

Mothlin obeyed, grinning.

Elenanar and Cilyawen liked each other right away, which took a huge load off Mothlin's mind. He could not have imagined how horrible his life would be if the two most important women in it hated each other. He wasn't sure what to make of the two of them whispering together and glancing sideways at him when Elenanar changed the dressing on Cilyawen's wound, but it was better than having them glare at each other the whole way.

They encountered no trouble on the way to Thranduil's palace, for which Mothlin was profoundly grateful. He was exhausted from the adventure in Sauron's dream-place, and he wouldn't have given much for their chances if a spider had attacked them. Elenanar felt the same way - relief was obvious in her voice when she announced excitedly that she was starting to recognize this part of the forest. "We're almost there!" she cried eagerly.

"How much longer until we get there?" Mothlin asked.

She bit her lip, thinking. "Maybe a day, maybe two, no more than three." Elenanar looked at him from the other side of Tari, her face lit up with happiness. "Oh, _Valar,_ it's going to be good to sleep in a _bed_ again!"

"You think you have it hard," Cilyawen remarked, slung across Tari. "At least you don't get jostled around all day on horseback!" Tari snorted indignantly, and Cilyawen laughed and petted her neck to reassure the horse that she'd only been teasing.

Mothlin fell into step beside Elenanar and took her free hand. She looked up at him and smiled, and he smiled back. The trip had afforded them little time to themselves, and it was nice to simply hold hands and walk together. But finally he broke the companionable silence and said, "You know, when we met, I wouldn't have guessed you'd be this happy to come back to Mirkwood."

She laughed softly. "Neither would I," she admitted. "It just - it's like coming home. Seeing these places that I recognize, knowing the faces I'll see when I get back...it feels so nice."

Mothlin looked down. _So if she's happy here, will she not want to come back to Rivendell with me? Because I can't stay in Mirkwood, I just don't like it here - and it's too close to Dol Guldur for my peace of mind._ He held his tongue, though, and spoke none of his thoughts. He refused to let his anxiety ruin Elenanar's homecoming, even if the smile on her face made him feel like thousands of bugs were crawling inside his stomach.

Elenanar looked up at him curiously. "Are you all right?" she asked, concerned, and got no further than that before three Elves, clad in green and brown, emerged from the forest. One had a bow, strung and drawn and aimed at Mothlin, and the other two held swords at the ready.

Mothlin froze. The fleeing remnants of his presence of mind made him reach out and grab hold of Tari's mane to keep her and Cilyawen next to him and Elenanar. Then he held still. The eyes of the Elf who was sighting down her arrow at him were very hard and very bright. Beside him, Elenanar was glaring.

"What business have you in Mirkwood?" demanded one of the Elves with a sword.

Elenanar pushed forward, her arms over her chest. "For the love of the Valar, Celebmend, put that sword away!" she snapped. "We're friendly and peaceful and she needs help! Is that enough?" She indicated Cilyawen with a wave of her hand.

The Elf, taken aback, blinked several times and then gasped, "Lady Elenanar!" He thrust his sword into its scabbard and knelt before her, quickly followed by the other two. "We have thought you dead this past time."

She drew herself up proudly, until Mothlin almost forgot her ripped and dirty dress, tangled red hair, and weary face. "As you can see, Celebmend, I am not dead. My companions and I have traveled long and are weary. If you would escort us to my uncle the king's palace, we would be most grateful." Mothlin looked at her in surprise - he had never seen her go royal. She wasn't bad at it, either.

Celebmend stood up and whirled on his companions. "Curucam, go with them. Silwen, stay here." The Elf woman with the bow did not move from where she knelt - the other Elf with the sword bowed as he got to his feet, an extremely odd motion. Celebmend looked extremely embarrassed at not having recognized a princess of Mirkwood as he said apologetically, "I would take you myself, Lady Elenanar, but someone must stay -"

"Understood," Elenanar said quickly. "Let's go, then." Curucam, his sword still out, took the lead, and they followed, Tari and Cilyawen bringing up the rear.

"You might have warned me there would be patrols," Mothlin muttered to Elenanar as they made their way through the forest.

"I forgot!" she said defensively. "I wasn't really thinking about how to avoid the patrols. I was more concerned with Cilyawen's health."

The object of Elenanar's concern lifted her head from where she lay and asked interestedly, "Did I hear wrong back there, or are you a princess?"

"Yes," Elenanar admitted, "a princess and a failed patrol guard and a successful adventurer."

"You might have mentioned that too," Cilyawen teased.

"I had a lot of other things on my mind," said Elenanar grumpily.

Mothlin put his arm around her shoulders. "We know," he reassured her. "We're just teasing. And it turned out fine, didn't it?"

"I suppose," she said, and put her head against his shoulder.

The path that Curucam led them on took them up a river that burbled along beside them as they walked. "This eventually empties out into a marsh," Elenanar said, pointing to the river. "I think this is the one by the palace." Suddenly she caught her breath and darted in front of Curucam. "This is it!" she cried. "Right up there, it's the palace!"

Mothlin looked. It was a huge cave, with many small caves opening off it. A bridge spanned the river running in front of it, and the walkway to the bridge was lined with trees on either side. The huge stone gates looked formidable, and Mothlin suddenly recalled Arwen's stories about traveling with the Dwarves who had been caught in Mirkwood and taken to this palace and this king. He swallowed, and then reproached himself for ridiculous nervousness. This was Elenanar's home. She knew what to expect, and she wouldn't let anything happen to him or Cilyawen.

Cilyawen tugged his sleeve. "Not very pleasant, is it?" she said in a low voice. As always, she had a knack of knowing exactly what Mothlin was thinking of, and her eyes were sad and wise. "You should get Elenanar out of here as soon as possible," she went on under her breath, so Curucam wouldn't hear. "I'm surprised that someone as bright as she could have grown up in this place. If she stays here any longer, she'll start to dull - she won't be able to help it."

"She would," Mothlin insisted, although Cilyawen had just given voice to his own fears. "She'd fight it. She'd stay just the way she is."

"You would have said the same about me under Sauron's control," Cilyawen reminded him, "and I gave in. The Shadow is powerful, Mothlin. Never believe it can do less than what your nightmares tell you."

Mothlin looked at Elenanar. She was far enough away that all he could see was a ragged green dress and a fall of long red hair running unhesitatingly toward the bridge. He could have burst with the love he felt for her, and hoped desperately that he and Cilyawen were both wrong about Mirkwood - but he didn't know, and the uncertainty tormented him.

They followed Elenanar at a more decorous pace. Curucam, annoyed at the slowness with which they were moving, finally lifted Cilyawen from Tari's back and carried her in his arms across the bridge, while Mothlin led Tari and glared at Curucam to make sure the Elf didn't jostle Cilyawen. Once on the other side of the bridge, Mothlin turned Tari over to the hostler, after giving her a reassuring pat, and followed Curucam into the cave-palace. The stone doors shut behind them with a gloomy resonance that made his shiver.

The throne of the king of Mirkwood was at the far end of a hall that the doors led straight into. "The Lady Elenanar will have gone in her," Curucam threw over his shoulder at Mothlin as he went directly into the hall. Mothlin cursed the arrogance of Mirkwood Elves as he trotted after Curucam. _Like a good little puppy,_ he thought peevishly.

Mothlin got three steps into the hall, after Curucam's five, when he stopped at a cry of joy. _"Cilyawen!"_ it said, and then one of the Elves by the throne detached from it and ran toward them, and Mothlin could have jumped for joy, because it was Elrohir. Cilyawen too had recognized him, and she wriggled out of Curucam's hold to be upright and standing on her own when Elrohir reached her. And then he did reach her, and he caught her up in his arms and held her close to him, carefully avoiding the bandage over her wound. Mothlin couldn't hear what his foster-father was saying, and he looked away with a smile, not even trying to listen for it. Curucam was seething, affronted at Elrohir's lack of dignity, and one look at his face made Mothlin want to laugh.

A cough from the throne recalled his foster-parents to themselves. They stopped hugging, but Elrohir lifted Cilyawen in his arms as though she weighed nothing more than a feather and carried her tenderly back to the throne. Biting his lips to conceal his grin, Mothlin followed them, a few steps behind. He could understand why Elrohir hadn't even noticed him, after all, and understanding helped relieve the faint hurt at the fact.

Elrohir bowed his head to Thranduil of Mirkwood when he reached the throne. "My lord," he said formally, "may I present my wife, the Lady Cilyawen Aglarfin." Cilyawen too inclined her head. Thranduil looked extremely displeased at their lack of decorum, but he returned the greeting with a gracious nod.

Mothlin tapped Elrohir on the shoulder. His foster-father turned around. His face was very interesting to watch. First he blinked for just an instant, not understanding, and then he remembered that Mothlin had gone after Cilyawen and his face showed surprise, and then it was all wiped away by sheer joy at seeing him again. "Mothlin!" he cried. Mothlin quickly stepped up to hug Elrohir, since his foster-father could hardly let go of Cilyawen.

"And who is this?" demanded Thranduil. Mothlin let Elrohir go, but Elenanar moved forward and said quickly, "Uncle, this is Mothlin of Rivendell. I was his companion on our travels to bring back the Lady Cilyawen." She looked over at Mothlin, caught his eye, and grinned - he grinned back.

Thranduil looked at Elenanar with some surprise, although she'd just come running into his throne room. "Elenanar," he said, "I have not asked you. I asked Lord Elrohir."

_Oh, Elenanar..._ Mothlin's heart was a sudden mass of pain on her behalf. She herself stared at Thranduil with wide eyes. The abrupt whiteness of her face was exaggerated by her red hair, and Mothlin could see a tear shaking in the corner of one eye.

Elrohir said quickly, to give Elenanar time to control herself, "My lord Thranduil, she spoke truly. This is the foster-son of Lady Cilyawen and myself, and his name is Mothlin."

Thranduil nodded in acknowledgment, and Elenanar stepped back into the shadows behind the throne, her proud head bent to hide her over-bright eyes and wet cheeks. _"If she stays here any longer, she'll start to dull - she won't be able to help it."_ Cilyawen's words came flying back at him, and as if to mock him, his response came back as well. _"She'd fight it. She'd stay just the way she is."_ But Cilyawen was right - she had a knack for that sort of thing. The truth of her words was in every line of Elenanar, shocked into subservience. He thought of his bright, fiery, sensitive companion in the forest, and he wanted to yell with anger when he compared her to the crushed Elenanar he saw before him now.

Thranduil was saying something - Mothlin wasn't listening. All his being was focused on Elenanar. _Look at me, Elenanar, look up at me. I love you. I want to help you. I want to take you to Rivendell and let you drink in the sun there and shine with it. Look at me and see it on my face._

And she did look up, as though the force of his thoughts had drawn her gaze. He leaned forward slightly. Her face was wet and her eyes sunken, but she looked at him with wonder at whatever she read on his face. Then she stood up very straight and jerked her head off to one side. He knew what she meant as clearly as if she'd said it.

When their audience was done, Mothlin slipped away from the Rivendell Elves. They would probably be very worried once they found out he was gone, but he didn't think this would take very long. As they left the throne room, Mothlin darted into the room adjacent to it. It was a small room with a few chairs. He sat down in one and waited.

Elenanar came in a few moments later. He jumped to his feet and held out his arms, and she barely hesitated before wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. Mothlin stroked her hair and waited for her to be ready.

Finally she released him and stepped back. "I don't need to cry," she said brusquely. "I've done that already."

"Elenanar," Mothlin said, "I am so, so sorry -"

"Don't apologize!" she snapped, holding up a hand. "What could you have done about it? Why should you apologize for something you had nothing to do with?"

"All right," he said, smiling faintly, "I apologize for apologizing."

She struggled for a few long moments before she gave in and laughed. Mothlin laughed too, mostly for the pleasure of increasing her laughter. When they were laughed out, she sat down in the chair closest to his and said, "That was nice."

"What?" he asked. "To laugh?"

Elenanar said, "Yes. I don't laugh that often, have you noticed?"

"No," said Mothlin truthfully. "You laughed plenty when we were traveling."

Her face drew tightly in on itself. "I know," she said. "It's here. This forest, this palace, these people - this is why it feels so nice to laugh. I don't, here."

Mothlin held his breath, hardly daring to hope that she would say what he wanted to say to her, but wasn't sure if he could, or should...

"I really thought it would be different," said Elenanar, her tone one of bitter wonder. "I really did think that I would come back, and they would all see that I'd changed, that I wasn't just the spoiled princess with a temper like Morgoth's anymore, that I might be worth something to them and to Mirkwood. And now I come back, and nothing's changed but me, and I can't stand it here anymore."

Mothlin caught her hands between his. "Elenanar," he said, all in a rush, because unless he got it out fast he'd never be able to finish it, "come back with me - with us. Come to Rivendell."

She stared at him in disbelief, and he plowed ahead recklessly. "It's beautiful there, you'd love it. No one would mind at all - they know about Cilyawen, they're used to having people turn up there. And they'd love you, because you'd be a hero and a wonderful person, and you wouldn't have to learn any more weapons unless you wanted to, and there'd be no more patrols, and you could do whatever you wanted, and you could meet the rest of my family, and - and I want you to stay with me."

The silence that followed was very long and very tense.

"But - I can't," she whispered at last.

"Why not?" Mothlin demanded. "What have you got left here? Cilyawen started all over when she came there, and look at her! I was just dropped there, and I couldn't think of a place I'd rather be. Elenanar, it would do wonders for you, and you would do wonders for it."

She looked away from him, down at the floor, and then back at him, still uncertain.

"I love you, Elenanar," he said then, quietly and emphatically. "I love you, and I want you to be happy. Elenanar," he said. "Your name is star fire. I don't want to see that fire put out."

Elenanar looked straight at him then and said, "All right, then," in a voice shaking with nervousness but fully decided.

Mothlin cried out with joy and sprang up, catching her with him and pulling her close and swinging her around in his arms. Her laughter rang out again and he spun her even faster, until she slid down so her feet touched the ground and said, "I have one condition, though."

"Name it!" he said.

Grinning mischievously, Elenanar got down on one knee and said, "Mothlin Elrohirion, will you marry me?"

He answered her by dropping to his knees beside her and kissing her very thoroughly. "That's a yes, then," she gasped when he finally broke the kiss.

"Most definitely," he agreed, and toppled over backwards when she leaped at him for confirmation.


	17. Epilogue

**Scion of Snaga**

**Epilogue**

"I can't see it!" Elenanar said impatiently, stretching up as far as she could on horseback.

Mothlin laughed and sat her back down. "You're not going to be able to see it for a while," he said. "There happens to be an inconvenient hill in the way."

She grinned at him. "Can you blame me for trying, though?"

"No," he conceded, and laughed again as she stretched up again, making her horse whinny in annoyance.

"We will get there eventually," remarked Elrohir from behind them. Elenanar looked around and slipped back sheepishly into a sitting position - but Elrohir's smile was kind and friendly, not mocking as she'd feared. "And if we don't, we will put our trust in your woodcraft, Princess. Mothlin tells me you're quite good at such things."

Elenanar smiled. It lifted Mothlin's spirits to see that her smile was broad, the kind of wide grin she gave him, and not the self-conscious little curve of the lips she'd originally given Elrohir.

He tilted his head up, considering something. It wasn't that far to the crest of the hill, and if Elenanar wanted to see Rivendell that badly... He twisted around from where he sat on Tari's back and said, "Can we ride ahead to the hilltop to see it?"

Elenanar's face lit up, and Cilyawen laughed and said, "Go ahead." Mothlin grinned at Elenanar, and both of them nudged their horses into a run, racing each other up the hill and laughing.

"Tie?" Mothlin gasped when they reached the crest of the hill. "That was pretty even."

"Tie," Elenanar agreed - and then she looked down and lost all faculties of speech. Mothlin smiled and let out a longing sigh as he too looked down at his home.

It was not yet noon, and the cool morning sun was just gilding the roofs of the Last Homely House, turning them pale gold. The trees surrounding the houses were a shady green in the light, and the musical plunge of the waterfall could be heard even from where they sat on horseback. There were a few Elves standing on the bridge with flowers in their hands and songs on their lips. "Are they...?" Elenanar asked tentatively.

Mothlin managed to put an arm around her shoulders, even though they were both mounted. "Yes," he said. "That's your first Rivendell welcoming committee."

"It's beautiful, Mothlin," she said wonderingly. "It's so beautiful here."

He grinned. "Wait until you see it up close!" he said. "There's so much to show you - the gardens, and the insides of the houses, and the library, and the whole valley - oh, _everything,_ Elenanar! I think you're going to love it here!"

"I think I already do," she said, and took his hand and smiled into his eyes.

So when the rest of the party caught up with them, they rode down together into Rivendell, with the songs of the Elves sparkling in their ears like the golden light of the many years ahead.


End file.
